


The ATA Affair

by Xparrot



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Las Vegas, SGA Genficathon 2009, Stealth Crossover, spy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-24
Updated: 2009-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-02 09:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xparrot/pseuds/Xparrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teyla Emmagan and Rodney McKay, two of the S.G.C.'s top secret agents, are sent to the Casino Atlantis to investigate the suspicious business dealings of one John Sheppard...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I: "The Demands of Mathematically Unviable Capitalistic Chance"

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2009 [SGA Gen Ficathon](http://community.livejournal.com/sga_genficathon/), for the AU genre. My prompt was "You can do anything you set your mind to when you have vision, determination, and an endless supply of expendable labor." The final story has very little to do with the prompt. It also has no relation with the episode "Vegas," despite the setting.
> 
> There are several cameo crossovers with various other series; knowledge of any of them is unimportant to the actual plot, but if anything seems suspiciously familiar, it's likely with good reason.

Las Vegas gave Rodney McKay a headache. The city was too bright, too hot in the day and too cold at night, and it kept ridiculous hours. Also the florescent displays and security wiring and anti-cheating radio baffles wreaked havoc on his surveillance equipment.

"I am sure you are up to the challenge," Teyla said patiently, as she hooked on her faux pearl earrings. The left one was molded of a potent sedative that dissolved in liquid; the right one was an explosive. Even in good light they looked real, however, as opalescent as if they'd just been drawn from the sea; one of Radek's better efforts.

"Of course I'm _up_ to the challenge," Rodney huffed. "But I don't appreciate make-work scenarios. This whole place is an exercise in inefficiency. Gambling, for god's sake! Do you know what the odds are of winning a—"

"But we are not here to gamble," Teyla said, slipping the bug into her ear and curling her auburn hair over her earlobe to conceal it. "He is on the floor?"

Casino Atlantis was a new establishment, with state-of-the-art security conveniently monitoring every inch of the floor. Rodney had tapped into the system an hour after arriving. A quick scan of his laptop screens now confirmed their target. "Still at the blackjack tables."

"Is everything ready?"

Rodney checked the audio, and the video feed from the micro-camera in her choker. "Yes, yes, it's all good to go."

"Then I will go," Teyla said, and giving her black gown a final once-over in the mirror, she departed, the hotel door clicking shut behind her.

 

* * *

 

So as not to be too obvious, Teyla insinuated herself at the blackjack table adjacent to their target, rather than with him. It wouldn't do for him to get to know her face, if they were going to keep up surveillance for a while. However long that was to be—their instructions thus far consisted of 'observe target, record and identify relevant contacts.'

It was an unstimulating exercise for two of the S.G.C.'s finest spies, and Rodney suspected that it had more to do with his inadvertent insult of that cabinet member's son than any pressing international crisis. He'd only given an honest estimate of the boy's IQ; how was he to know whose kid he was? It wasn't like he kept track of the names of every single government official around the world. He wasn't even an American citizen, just a resident.

"Besides," he muttered to Teyla over their radio link, "'dense as a radio-quiet neutron star' was practically a compliment anyway, in his case."

"You are being paranoid," Teyla said in an undertone, hardly moving her lips, the microphone in her choker carrying the vibrations from her throat to his speakers.

"So you said before," Rodney answered, "but here we are in Vegas, playing Peeping Tom on some poor sap with too much money and time on his hands. _Someone's_ getting punished."

"Yes," Teyla agreed, and while the whisper of her sub-vocalizing canceled any overt emotion, her tone was wry nevertheless.

"I've been going over this guy's profile again," Rodney said, turning to his other computers and all the open documents he had gathered since getting this assignment, "and I still don't have a clue why the S.G.C. would give a damn about him—or anyone else, either. He's rich, but he's not that rich; he doesn't have a lot of influential friends, he's not into politics. So obviously it's got something to do with his company, but what...would've been nice if they'd given us a hint, at least..."

Teyla was leaning over the blackjack table to get a better angle on their target—probably giving the dealer quite a good angle as well, considering her low-cut dress. Everybody wins in the spy game. Rodney shrugged off that thought, glancing at the man framed in Teyla's camera, then at the pictures on his screen. In addition to the various corporate profiles and the military ID photos, he'd found the guy's high school yearbook shot—floppier hair and fewer wrinkles, but the long lines of his face were the same twenty years later. A lazy face, not really made for the effort of smiling or frowning, and in Teyla's video feed he was slouched in his seat at the blackjack table, one arm draped on the table like he couldn't be bothered to lift it. About the only energy in him was his hair, which looked like it was on strike, protesting the sleek black satin of his tuxedo, and possibly staging a picket line.

Other than that, there was nothing to distinguish John Sheppard, son of the late Patrick Sheppard. Except for his bank account, of course—along with his brother, he was the co-owner of Sheppard Power, the largest energy conglomerate on the West Coast, as well as numerous other holdings.

It was one of those other holdings that was their reason for being here, Rodney was sure. While the S.G.C. was being particularly cagey with their information, if Sheppard Power were the object, their target would be Dave Sheppard. According to Rodney's preliminary research, the younger brother ran the day-to-day operations; John Sheppard was responsible for the more esoteric branches of the business.

Right now, however, he seemed more responsible for disposing of his family's considerable wealth. Admittedly the blackjack tables were the least expedient way to lose one's shirt, but you don't go to a casino to make money. Rodney hadn't yet found evidence that Sheppard had a gambling problem, but then that was hardly something a family would advertise—

"Rodney," Teyla murmured, and Rodney looked up at the screens.

Not a casino addiction after all, maybe; Sheppard was shaking hands with another man. Tall, East Asian features, younger than Sheppard by several years; a businessman by the cut of his white suit. An important one. Probably Japanese or Chinese, here for a clandestine business meeting, and finally things were getting interesting.

"Who?" Teyla sub-vocalized, turning to get a clear shot of the new man.

"How should I know?" Rodney said, taking a couple high-definition snaps of the man via Teyla's micro-cam. "You know I'm crap with faces. And names, and birthdays—"

Teyla's delicate cough was either chiding or a suppressed laugh at his expense. Either way, Rodney rolled his eyes, told her, "Yes, yes, I'm on it," applying his electronic pen to quickly outline the man's pertinent features for a database scan.

Teyla gracefully departed from her table and headed for the lavatories, passing by Sheppard's table as she did, close enough to catch a scrap of their conversation. "Japanese, I think," she murmured to Rodney. "No accent, but Sheppard was mentioning Tokyo."

Rodney accessed the Japanese Business Bureau database, narrowed the parameters by estimated birth year and ran the scan. "Got him," he said several minutes later. "Seto Kaiba, CEO of Kaiba Corporation, an international corporation specializing in—huh." Rodney sat back in his chair. "Games."

"Games?" Teyla repeated.

"Video games, board games, card games—kid's stuff. Literally. The hell?" Rodney frowned, drumming his fingers on the edge of his keyboard. "What kind of wild goose chase are we being sent on, here?"

 

* * *

 

"The most dangerous kind_,"_ Landry said, when Rodney put the question to him later that night. The general looked tired—Colorado was an hour ahead of Nevada, so it was almost one AM there. Rodney didn't especially care; it was the man's job to keep them informed, and if they'd been fully briefed before departure they wouldn't require this conversation anyway.

"General Landry," Teyla said, as patient as always, "what danger does Kaiba Corporation represent?"

Landry leaned forward to fill the video's window. _"_The S.G.C. has reason to believe that KaibaCorp's entertainment business is a front. Until the mid-90s, KaibaCorp was a major defense contractor, specializing in missile guidance systems and long-distance remote combat. The suspicion is that rather than closing shop on their international arms manufacturing, they found a more lucrative, private venue for their production."

Teyla nodded. "Black-market arms dealing. We see."

"Any proof?" Rodney demanded, disgruntled. He'd researched KaibaCorp for two hours and hadn't come across a mention of black-market operations.

"None that the S.G.C. has been able to uncover," Landry admitted. "Until this meeting with Sheppard—it's significant that KaibaCorp's CEO came in person to negotiate the deal."

"Not to mention, they're meeting over a Vegas blackjack table," Rodney said. "Because that's not suspicious at all."

"But of what interest would Sheppard Power be to a weapons manufacturer?" Teyla asked.

Landry sighed. "Not Sheppard Power. One of their holding companies, Ancient Enterprises." Rodney's fingers flew over the keyboard as the general continued, "It was a small private company Sheppard Power purchased—"

"—Six years ago," Rodney supplied, reading off the screen. "And promptly liquidated, so what—"

"Project ATA," Landry said. "And don't bother looking that one up, Dr. McKay; it won't be in any database you have the security classification to access. Suffice to say, while Ancient Enterprises is gone, Sheppard Power has still been accepting funding from various sources for Project ATA for the past six years, under the direct management of John Sheppard."

"'Various sources'," Rodney quoted, "meaning, what—the American military? Other militaries? The private sector?"

Landry gave him a long look, and Teyla nudged him with her elbow, under the table out of range of the general's camera. "Right," Rodney said, "so whoever it is, they're put out that John Sheppard might be trying to sell their pet project to the highest bidder."

"Worse than that," Landry said grimly. "There was concern about the security breach regardless, but if Sheppard is giving Project ATA over to KaibaCorp, rather than any other bidder—KaibaCorp has several significant business connections with Egypt."

"Egypt?" Rodney blanched.

Teyla retained her usual equanimity, her voice level. "You believe KaibaCorp may sell to G.O.A.U.L.D.?"

"It's a possibility," Landry said. "A far better one than the I.O.A. cares to contemplate. Dr. McKay, Ms. Emmagan, for the sake of the world, G.O.A.U.L.D. cannot get hold of Project ATA. Whatever deal Sheppard is trying to arrange must be stopped, by whatever means necessary. Is that understood?"

 

* * *

 

Teyla changed out of her black gown into the black cat-burglar suit that was ten times as distracting, for all Rodney had seen her in it more than the cocktail dresses. Not that he harbored any inappropriate feelings for his partner, but on a standard one-to-ten scale of female pulchritude, Teyla scored on average a nine point five, and he was only human.

He gallantly kept his eyes on her face (mostly) as he gave her the rundown of Sheppard's hotel suite, three floors down and two rooms over from theirs. While there were no security cameras to access in the rooms themselves—stupid privacy laws, and hotels that abided by them—he'd been monitoring the hall cams, and between that and the directional microphones he'd determined that Sheppard had returned to his room an hour ago. He had showered, and now, from the snores emanating from the bedroom, was sound asleep. The sedative gas capsule tucked into Teyla's belt would keep him that way while she searched the suite.

"Sheppard didn't come with a bodyguard, and he hasn't hired any local muscle," Rodney said, "so you shouldn't have to worry about interruptions. He should be alone, there wasn't any woman with him in the hall—or man, for that matter—and it looks like he's trying to keep this whole deal on the down-low. So with luck he doesn't even suspect anyone's on to him. But that doesn't preclude the possibility that he's personally armed, and he was in the Air Force for a time, so you've got to figure he knows basic self-defense—not that you don't know quite a bit more than basic, but—"

"I will be careful, Rodney," Teyla said, smiling her seraphic smile. She touched his arm in gentle reassurance as she passed him to go out onto the balcony. Getting a good grip on the rappel line, she climbed up onto the railing as effortlessly as if it were a single stair, and stepped off the edge.

Rodney mastered his acrophobia long enough to peer over the edge, watching his partner descend into the night, just another shadow against the hotel's burnished false-copper walls. Then he shivered in the chill of the desert night and went inside to his computers to wait. In a few minutes, Teyla reported over the radio, "I am inside. Sheppard is temporarily sedated. He doesn't have much luggage, I am going through it now, but there are no business documents that I have found."

"Try the safe," Rodney suggested. "This hotel's got Zeira models, easy-peasy. Radek's cracker should have you through the electronic lock in thirty seconds."

"I have it open," Teyla said after a bit, "but the attaché case inside is also locked."

"Any manufacturer's logo on the case?"

"An X, red and black. Titanium Class, it says."

"A Xanatos Titanium?" Rodney whistled. "Okay, somebody's serious about keeping secrets. You're not going to get into that tonight."

"And one supposes Sheppard would notice if it were borrowed."

"One would suppose, yeah." Rodney paced a short circuit around the desk, thinking. "Okay, can you get out of there now without leaving any trace? So Sheppard won't know anyone broke in? If you can get another shot at the case tomorrow, I should be able to work something out."

"Provided Sheppard does not complete the deal tomorrow," Teyla said, "but as I see no other—"

Her voice cut off so suddenly Rodney thought the connection might have been broken, but the radio was still transmitting when he checked. "Teyla?" he asked, tapping on the microphone. "Are you—"

With the speaker's volume turned up to carry whispers, Teyla's choked gasp sounded like a shout, agonizingly loud. Rodney dialed down the sound with his left hand, his right automatically groping for his sidearm, in its holster on the desk. "Teyla?" he demanded anxiously.

There was no answer, but Teyla's breathing came in harsh, rapid pants, and when he tuned into the directional mics focused on the room, he made out reverberations, like footsteps, but arrhythmic. Blows—punches or kicks, probably. And that sharper crack was likely Teyla's special ninja rods.

Cursing the lack of cameras in the suite, Rodney carefully filtered out the sounds from the different mics. The snoring in the other room hadn't been interrupted; Sheppard was still asleep, so there was someone else in there with Teyla. Or someones; by the number of blows, there might have been a couple fighters. Or else it was a single person as fast in hand-to-hand as Teyla, and wasn't that a cheerful thought—

"Teyla, do you need backup?" he asked, looking at the cameras monitoring the peaceful hall outside Sheppard's suite, fingers clenched around his Beretta pistol, dithering. If he sent security to Sheppard's room, that would blow everything; but then, if his partner were killed in there, their cover would be just as effectively ended, and Teyla—"Teyla, tell me, do—"

"No," Teyla panted, her breath hissing into the mic. "I am—all right."

There were no sounds from Sheppard's suite now, except his ongoing snores. "Where are you?" Rodney asked.

"Escaped. Window. Going to—roof," Teyla answered. "I may be—observed."

She didn't want her attacker to trace her back to their room. "On my way," Rodney said, only just remembering to grab his blazer on the way out. Fortunately at three A.M. the hotel halls were mostly deserted, save for the party of drunken bachelors tumbling out of the elevator. Rodney made sure his pistol was concealed under the jacket as he impatiently waited for them to disembark, then got in and slammed the close-door button so hard he stubbed his finger.

The stairway to the roof was locked, but Rodney's modified keycard passed him through without incident. He'd already set the rooftop cameras on a three-minute loop of nothing that should pass casual inspection, at least until the sun came up. Once he squeezed through the outside door, he ducked, stooping low on the roof to present a smaller target as he scanned the surroundings with night-vision scopes. Seeing no other people on the building or the adjacent ones, and no telltale glare of a camera lens or laser sight, he made his way toward the other figure on the rooftop, sticking to the shadows as best he could.

Her infiltration suit was heat-reflective, so only her face showed clearly in the scopes, her body not much more than an outline, but the size was right. "Teyla?" Rodney whispered, gun ready in his hand, just in case.

"It is me, Rodney," Teyla answered, still sounding out of breath, but less strained aloud than on the radio. She rose from her crouch in the shadow of the rooftop's raised ledge, headed to him. Even in the dark he could see she was limping slightly.

"Are you okay?" he asked. Teyla looked around the rooftop and Rodney said hastily, "It's okay, there's no one else up here. What happened? Were you attacked, who was it, did you—"

"I was attacked," Teyla said, leaning on his arm when she got close enough, and he quickly put his arm around her waist to help support her. "I could not see by whom. Evidently he was as interested in preserving his anonymity as I was, for he did not turn on the lights."

"At least he was unarmed," Rodney said, as they climbed back down from the roof.

"Not unarmed," Teyla corrected. In the bright lights of the stairwell, she didn't look that much worse for wear, no obvious marks on her face, anyway. Though she'd need to wear a dress with a high collar to hide the bruises on her neck.

The unseemly large, curved and mottled bruises. "Wait, are those the guy's _fingers_?" Rodney demanded, feeling ill.

Teyla touched her throat. "Most likely."

"So, really not unarmed." Rodney had never cared for people whose bodies could legally be considered lethal weapons. Partners excluded, of course.

"Not only those," Teyla said. "He also had knives."

"Knives? As in, more than one?" Rodney glanced worriedly at Teyla, and then stared. "And why, if he had knives, plural, and fingers big enough to strangle a grizzly bear, are you smiling? Even if you had your ninja sticks—"

"I did have my bantos rods," Teyla said, patting her leg, where the retracted metal rods were snug in their thigh sheath. "And they were equal to his knives. Still, I have rarely met with so able an opponent in hand-to-hand."

"Meaning, he nearly killed you—and you're smiling."

"Adrenaline," Teyla said serenely.

"Clinical insanity," Rodney countered.

The elevator doors dinged and opened, disgorging an elderly couple, up way past their bedtime. They glared at Rodney for blocking their way, and then gaped at Teyla in her basic burglaring black. One of her sleeves was torn, Rodney noticed, the cloth hanging loose from a long rent slicing halfway down the length of her arm, and while he didn't see any blood underneath, it must have been close.

_Knives_. Christ.

The senior citizens were squinting through their glasses at Teyla's utility belt and the rappel carabiners glinting on it. "Ah," Rodney said. "Um. This..."

"We were attending a costume party," Teyla explained, putting her arm around Rodney's neck and cuddling close, turning her head to conceal her bruised throat.

"Yes, right," Rodney said. "She's Catwoman, I'm Bruce Wayne. On vacation," he added, when the old man looked suspiciously at his wrinkled shirt and lack of tie, and Rodney hoped the gun under his jacket wasn't making too obvious a bulge.

The elevator doors closed, mercifully cutting off further inquisition. Rodney leaned against the mirrored back wall. "Sometimes I don't think I'm cut out for this job," he muttered.

Teyla just laughed softly.

 

* * *

 

To prevent Sheppard from closing his deal, so the briefcase would still be in his room the next night, they asked Landry to call in a favor with the FBI. "Arresting Seto Kaiba is not going to buy you a lot of time," the general warned. "They'll be able to hold Kaiba for twenty-four hours, forty-eight hours on the outside. After that, even if G.O.A.U.L.D. stays out of it, the Japanese embassy is bound to raise a ruckus, and terrorists from Japan are a hard sell anyway, whatever charges we trump up."

But putting Sheppard's potential buyer out of the picture hopefully would give them the chance they needed to sort the mess out. Provided someone else didn't intervene. "You're sure you don't remember anything about the guy who jumped you?" Rodney pressed again. "Accent, voice, anything?"

"He didn't speak," Teyla said, "so I can tell you nothing about his voice."

"What about his fighting style, you can ID those, usually—"

"It was dark. And his moves were not particular to a single style," Teyla said. "School of survival, perhaps—he was very adept in defense, by whatever means. As well as offense."

"There's got to be something," Rodney said. "Some way to find the guy."

"He may be waiting in Sheppard's room again tonight."

"Some way other than you getting ambushed by him again. He might have a gun this time."

"It would not be his ambush, if I were waiting for him."

"But it would be his, if he were waiting for you. You're sure you don't remember anything we could use to track him down?"

"He is a large man," Teyla said thoughtfully. "Six four, six five. And strong. And younger than me, I think, to move so fast and easily for his size."

"Not a guy who would blend in easily with a crowd," Rodney said. "So we're looking for the Jolly Green Giant, with knives. If we were anywhere but Vegas, that probably would help. You didn't break his nose or anything nice and distinctive like that, did you?"

"Next time I will endeavor to," Teyla promised.

 

* * *

 

So Sheppard wouldn't make Teyla tailing him, Rodney swapped places with her after lunch, assuming the personal watch while she kept an eye on his monitors up in their hotel room. He followed the business mogul from the seafood restaurant, past the blackjack tables, to the dice games, fighting not to roll his eyes. Blackjack could be played to win, if you had the intelligence and the head for figures, and Sheppard had some kind of successful system, to tell by the chips he had cashed the night before. Craps was pure chance, and the house always rigged the odds in its favor; you might as well set fire to your cash and enjoy the flickering flames. It would be about as profitable in the long run.

And Sheppard, from the diminishing stack of chips at his elbow, had even worse luck than probability offered. Rodney sympathized; he'd never had anything resembling luck himself. Except that he had the intelligence to stick to games of skill, and games he was skilled at, rather than hoping for a break that would never come.

Sheppard should have the intelligence, too; according to his profile, he had a degree from MIT, plus the American military wasn't known for giving officer's stripes—or stars, or bars, or whatever came with commissions—to complete simpletons. And they didn't tend to assign them Special Ops missions, either, which was the best explanation Rodney could come up with for the big blacked-out patches in Sheppard's Air Force record.

Special Ops experience might also explain why, after he was booted from the military and returned to the Sheppard family fold, John Sheppard had been given jurisdiction over Ancient Enterprises. If they had been a defense contractor, and Project ATA was some kind of military or quasi-military endeavor...which it probably was, because few other secrets were guarded so closely. Three hours of dedicated hacking the night (or early morning) before hadn't turned up anything revealing about the project. If he had to hazard a guess, Rodney would say it had something to do with biological warfare; before the company's liquidation, there had been a couple geneticists on Ancient Enterprises's payroll, along with engineers and physicists and various other scientists. Really, though, he had no idea.

Ten years ago, he might have been brought on board the project himself—but that was a long time ago, and not something he dwelled on anymore. Spilled milk and the road less traveled and all that. He'd had therapy; he'd worked through it, mostly. And General Landry did still call him "Doctor," in acknowledgment—of his degrees, or perhaps his ego.

But damn, did Rodney want to know what Sheppard had in his guaranteed-almost-unbreakable top-secret X-T attaché case, the one propped against his knees now. And not only because it potentially posed a significant threat to the free world and life as he knew it.

For now, however, he could only watch, as Sheppard lazily drank beer and lost obscene amounts of money. If he was concerned that Seto Kaiba wasn't making his appointment—if indeed they had any appointment today—it didn't show. As unstressed as Sheppard looked now, he might as well be selling a video game. Maybe Sheppard Power was branching out into the entertainment industry, and all Sheppard had in his briefcase were cheat codes for the latest first-person shooter. Or electronic golf. Sheppard looked like the kind of guy who would waste hours on a virtual golf course.

"Sir," the croupier said, "if you don't place a bet this round, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave to make room for those who want to play."

"I'm just getting a feel for the table," Rodney said.

"It's great, buddy," the corpulent man next to him assured. "Last round was so bad, the odds have to be better this time. Can't roll too many more snake-eyes. That's probability for you."

Rodney eyed him. "Have you ever even _heard_ the correct definition of probability? Or is it just the only five-syllable word you know, so you like to toss it around?"

The man's face went lurid mauve. "Sir," the croupier said, with a hint of desperation.

Teyla was snickering in his ear. "Fine," Rodney said, "I'll accede to the demands of mathematically unviable capitalistic chance," and he put down two ten-dollar chips.

When he looked across at the opposite table to see if Sheppard was faring any better, he realized with a start like an electric current that he wasn't the only one. At the next table beyond that, a man was looking over as well—not at Rodney, but at Sheppard. An unusually tall man, and Rodney felt his pulse-rate double at the sharpness of his gaze, turned away before the guy spotted him.

He was in a tuxedo a good deal pricier than Rodney's maroon velvet, and his short thick hair was neatly slicked back, but something about his stance screamed _dangerous_. More than his height—and not the hulking intimidation of a bully, but a quieter threat, the kind of aura that made people walk around rather than push past him, without even realizing they were doing it. It was something Rodney never could manage, and Teyla pulled off effortlessly, when she wished; a subtle, primal signal that warned, _I could kill you in a second, if I wanted to, so don't make me want to._

"Teyla," Rodney whispered, "Two tables down, third guy from the right."

"Ah," Teyla said over the radio. "Yes. It could be."

Sheppard hadn't brought any bodyguards with him, hadn't hired any. This didn't make sense.

"Sheppard does not appear to know this man is watching," Teyla observed, and no, Sheppard never once glanced at his outsized shadow, like he didn't know the man was there.

So perhaps Sheppard hadn't hired him. Maybe Kaiba had sent the man as extra insurance, if Sheppard wasn't cooperating. Or else Kaiba had been hoping to get out of paying Sheppard's asking price; maybe this guy had been after the same objective as Teyla, and that was why he'd broken into Sheppard's suite.

Leaning his arm on the table, Rodney casually glanced over the room again, his gaze passing over the big man, carefully not resting on him for an instant, but registering his presence, his wary stance, the bump under his tux jacket of a concealed holster. Not just knives, then; or else that was one hell of a knife.

The bulge was more obvious when he moved, swinging into long strides, to follow—Sheppard, who had picked up his metal briefcase and was ambling from the craps table, out of the dicing area. Rodney reached to scoop up his chips.

"Sir!" the croupier said, smiling. "Congratulations!"

Rodney looked at the two sixes on the dice, then at the circle of faces around the table grinning inanely at him. "I won?"

"Boxcars pay out at thirty to one."

Rodney blinked down at his pair of blue chips. "I won six hundred dollars?"

"Rodney," Teyla said in his ear, a little too calmly for comfort.

Sheppard was out of sight when he looked over. "Crap," Rodney said. "Um, craps, rather, that is, you all can share it, on the house, whatever, I've got to go," and waving at his fellow less-fortunate but richer gamblers, he hurried off, leaving his winnings behind.

 

* * *

 

Rodney couldn't have been more than a minute behind his target, but the main corridor was crowded, and he couldn't spot Sheppard's ridiculous hair over the jostling throngs. His lanky black-clothed figure should stand out against the Atlantis's Art Deco revival glitz and glitter. But then, between the glowing blue bubble columns and the garish carpets embroidered with fake ancient glyphs, it was amazing that Rodney hadn't gone totally blind.

"Teyla," he hissed, "where is he?"

"I don't know," Teyla said.

"What do you mean—rewind the camera footage, this whole place is wired, he's got to be—"

"I am seeking him," Teyla said, very evenly. It was the particular tone she got when things were about to go very, very wrong—calm before the storm, the eerie stillness before an earthquake.

"Shit," Rodney muttered, "how the hell..." He turned around in the hallway, rising up on his toes to try to see over the heads of the crowds.

The big not-bodyguard wasn't in sight, either, and he should be obvious, sticking up a good couple inches over everyone else. So either he had shrunk himself, or he had a cloaking device, or else—maybe he'd decided not to wait until tonight; maybe he'd made his move now. Grabbed Sheppard and the case, and oh, it was going to be a blast, explaining this one to Landry...

When Rodney turned again, he noticed the door—set back in the wall, plain and gray, marked 'Employees Only.' It should have been locked, but it was slightly ajar, the latch not quite closed—someone had pushed through it in a hurry, and recently, if no alarms had alerted security that it had been left open.

Rodney swiped his own keycard to keep the alarms quiet, then slipped through it. The security equipment in the service sections was on a different circuit than the public floor, so Teyla would have trouble accessing it.

The corridor was narrow, thick cement-block halls as plain and quiet as the casino floor was gaudy and loud. Rodney hunched his shoulders against the claustrophobia of the close walls and sterile gray lights, and strode down the hall, one hand tucked under his suit jacket, fingers closed around his Beretta. He passed locked metal doors—keys needed for all of them, not just cards, so he ruled them out and kept going, until the corridor opened into a loading dock.

Ducking behind a crate of boxes to keep out of sight of the gabbing workers at the other end of the dock, Rodney scanned the local area. There were no signs—well, what did he expect, muddy footprints on a sunny desert day? Even Teyla's mad tracking skills wouldn't be much help on concrete and grating.

But there were cameras here, one mounted right overhead; he only barely avoided it. "Teyla," Rodney whispered, "the employee corridor leads to a loading dock, do you think you can tap into the security footage?"

"I can try," Teyla said.

"Try the fourth channel," Rodney told her, "it probably will be scrambled, but if you route it through the—"

If he had been Teyla, he probably would have heard it in time. A rustle behind him, or the thump of a footstep, or something—but there was nothing. No warning, just a crackling red flash across his eyes, too brilliant to hurt, and then absolutely nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

Rodney didn't realize he was awake until he heard a sound, tried to look for its source and discovered he couldn't see. A panicked half-second after that he figured out he couldn't see because his eyes were closed. Opening them helped with that, but everything was blurry at first, smeared like a watercolor painting in the rain.

It wasn't until he tried to lift his hands to rub his eyes clear that he realized he was tied up, ropes wrapped tight around his biceps and biting into his wrists. The bondage wasn't doing his back any favors, and the tightness of his shoulders might explain the headache. Or else that might have something to do with why he'd been unconscious a minute before.

One of the blurs in front of him moved. Rodney blinked hard until he finally focused his eyes, and then wished he hadn't, when the blur resolved into a large man in a dark tuxedo.

Across the craps table, the guy had looked tall; up close, and with Rodney tied to a chair, he could have gone for a career as a sequoia impersonator. Rodney had to rock back his head to look at the man's face, and he wasn't that close. He was standing several feet away, arms crossed, staring down at Rodney with the impassive patience of a man completely in control of the situation.

Rodney swallowed, trying to wet his throat enough not to squeak. "Um. Hello. I, um, think there might be some mistake..."

He realized as he said it, turning his head a little, that he no longer felt the pressure of the radio bug in his ear. And when he felt at his wrists with his hands tied behind him, his watch and special cufflinks were gone.

"Ah, hell," Rodney said weakly. "Umm. Maybe there wasn't a mistake after all..."

Captain Sequoia shrugged, massive shoulders going up and down.

Rodney glanced away from him, trying to take in the room. High ceiling, modern light fixtures, no windows, brown cardboard boxes—he had no idea where he was. He could have been in the Atlantis's storage area. Or another casino's, or another building. His skin itched with the dryness of air conditioning. For all he knew, this was a different city, or a different state. Different country? Who knew how long he had been unconscious...

_Unconscious_. And he didn't even remember going down. His gaze flew back to his captor. "Oh my god, did you actually knock me out by hitting me on my head? Did you give me a concussion? Do you have any idea how much my brain is worth—it's _insured_, by three governments—well, two governments, and a multinational advisory committee—that's how valuable it is, and you bashed me over the head with, what, a two-by-four—"

"No, I didn't," the big man said. "Used this," and he drew his gun, which wasn't actually a gun but some sort of space-age glowing-red-energy-cell _blaster_ that wouldn't have looked out of place in Harrison Ford's hands. For that matter, it didn't look out of place in the big guy's hands, either; it looked like it fit there, and had fitted there for a good long time.

"You hit me on the head with a—a _phaser_?" Rodney gaped.

The man's mouth twitched, much like Teyla's when she was suppressing a smile. "Didn't hit you," he said. "Shot you."

Rodney narrowed his eyes. "As I notice an encouraging lack of bullet holes in my body, I'm assuming that enormous overcompensating firearm is actually a taser?"

"Kind of," Sequoia said, in a way that indicated it really wasn't at all. "Got stun." He thumbed a switch on the side of the blaster, which hummed alarmingly in response. "Got kill, too."

"Stun," Rodney repeated, calmly he hoped, over the panic gibbering in his head. Other than the S.G.C., there were only two organizations that he knew of with access to true stun-weapons—one, if you discounted rumor and hearsay. Even if you didn't, they were seriously bad news—and the other was G.O.A.U.L.D..

This was not good in ways Rodney didn't want to even think about. Much less live through. It had been a while since he had been treated to G.O.A.U.L.D. hospitality, and he had zero interest in repeating the experience.

Teyla would be looking for him, he reminded himself. Even if the big man had taken his equipment, the subcutaneous transmitter was still in his arm. And Teyla had been on the radio with him when he was attacked; she'd know he was in trouble...

Provided, of course, that Sheppard wasn't in bigger trouble—they had their priorities, and insured or not, Rodney, like all the S.G.C.'s agents, was ultimately expendable. And Teyla would do what she had to, to complete the mission. They were the best, and that was what the best did. If Landry didn't okay his rescue, then Teyla wouldn't be coming.

All right, then. You're a secret agent, McKay; time to start acting like one. "There is a mistake being made here, and you're the one making it." Rodney said, as brazenly as he could manage, with his throat so dry his voice was cracking. He debated whether it was worth asking for water. Somehow this man didn't look like he would be sympathetic to the rigors of dehydration headaches. "You don't want to mess with the people I'm—"

"Spy General Control?" the big guy said, and smirked when Rodney's jaw dropped. "Wasn't hard to figure out."

Rodney tried to remember if he'd forgotten to take his S.G.C. ID card out of his wallet. He wasn't supposed to have it with him on a mission, but such trivial details occasionally slipped his mind. "I don't know what you're talking about, I'm under the employ of Sheppard Power—"

"Yeah, no," said the human sequoia. "Not with these," and he held his big fist up before Rodney's nose, opened his fingers to reveal Radek's special cufflinks glittering in the middle of his palm. "HMX?"

"Octogen? Oh, yes, because I'm dying to blow off my own hands thanks to a wayward speck of cigarette ash. No, it's an octanitrocubane polymer—"

"Detonator's in this?" the big man interrupted, holding up Rodney's watch.

"Um, no," Rodney said. "Of course not, why would you think—don't touch that!"

Captain Sequoia smirked wider, showing off painfully bright white teeth, and removed his big finger from the watch's inset knob.

It belatedly occurred to Rodney that had he simply let the man set off the explosives, he would now be minus one captor, or at least have a maimed and bleeding and mostly helpless captor, while he himself would have been outside the blast range; and really, there was a good reason why Teyla was the primary field agent, with all her enviable unsqueamish practicality...

"S.G.C.," the big man said, nodding to himself, as he slipped the watch and cufflinks back in his jacket pockets. "Knew you didn't look like G.O.A.U.L.D.."

"Of course I'm not—wait, you're not G.O.A.U.L.D., either?"

Sequoia's obnoxious grin died, folding into a grim line.

"So, what, are you working for Sheppard after all, then?" Rodney asked. There was probably a more subtle way to inquire, but his mouth was bone-dry and his head hurt even if he wasn't concussed, and if he were going to be messily killed in the near future, he'd at least like some answers before he went.

The big guy shook his head and ran a hand through his short hair, hesitating at the end of the motion like he was expecting there to be more of it. "Not Sheppard," he said. "Private interest."

"Kaiba Corporation?"

The man shook his head again.

"But you're after Sheppard," Rodney said. "Or what Sheppard's got."

"Yeah." The big man strode forward, until he was looming over Rodney, blotting out the light above and throwing him into shadow. "So what is it?"

Rodney craned his neck and peered up at the colossal silhouette, trying not to hyperventilate. "What is what?"

"What Sheppard's got."

"How—how should I know? You're the one trying to steal it!"

"So are you," Sequoia said. "That was your partner in Sheppard's room last night."

Rodney gulped. "Who?"

"I've fought G.O.A.U.L.D.. She wasn't G.O.A.U.L.D.. So she must be with you." The big man glanced meaningfully around the confines of the storage room. "Guess she'll be here soon. You must got some tracker on you."

Oh, shit. "I don't know what you're talking about," Rodney babbled, "I wasn't stealing anything from Sheppard, and I don't have a partner, that's ridiculous. Look at me, do you think anyone would have the tolerance to be my partner for more than a day—"

"What does Sheppard have in that case?" the big man asked again. When Rodney just stared at him, he reached under his tuxedo jacket and drew his blaster, held it up in Rodney's line of sight and very deliberately flipped the switch on the side. The energy cell where the hammer should be pulsed blood red. "Not on stun now," he said.

"Yes, because I'm sure to be happy to answer all your questions when I'm _dead_," Rodney said caustically.

"Not going to shoot you," Sequoia said calmly. "You talk, I'll put it back on stun."

Rodney stared at the blaster. Teyla was freakishly fast on her feet, and her standard outfit, like Rodney's tux jacket, included para-aramid fiber paneling that made Kevlar look like cheesecloth; it was rated for armor-piercing rounds. But this was no ordinary firearm, and the best ballistics protection didn't help if there were no ballistics, only an energy charge strong enough to stop the heart.

Please, Rodney thought with a flash of uncharacteristically suicidal impulse, let Landry not have okayed a rescue mission after all. It would be just his luck if he managed to get two of the S.G.C.'s top agents killed, instead of just his own incalculably valuable self. Probably karma for winning that stupid dice throw. "What if I told you I don't know what's in Sheppard's case?" he asked.

"Then why steal it?"

"Why were _you_ trying to steal it, smart guy?" Rodney snapped. "We were going after it because that's what we were told to do."

"Right," the big man said, his deep voice so flat that Rodney couldn't tell if he were being sarcastic or understanding.

"I'm telling the truth," Rodney said. "We're just operatives, the expendable labor force. They don't tell us a damn thing, it's always only need to know, and they'd probably prefer that we were incapable of thinking for ourselves, if it wasn't for the pesky problem that intelligence agents require a certain modicum of _actual_ intelligence to carry out their duties, though obviously not as much as I myself—"

"Shut up!" The big man, whose stone-cold poker face had been growing steadily more uninterpretable the more Rodney spoke, suddenly spun around, corkscrewing down into a low crouch, with his blaster aimed at the shadows cast by the highest stack of boxes.

Rodney shut his mouth and listened, but didn't hear anything. But then he wouldn't, if it were Teyla—"—Myself," he hastily resumed, raising his voice and picking up speed for the sake of distraction, "because, clearly, I am far ahead of the median IQ for this sort of work—wasted on it, you could say, but I had the clearance, and not much in the way of other options, after that little matter with the—"

The muffled thud of a silenced gunshot was still loud in the close quarters, and Rodney flinched. The jerk of the big man's shoulders wasn't him taking the bullet, however, but ducking out of its way in the nick of time. The shot ricocheted off the cement floor, and Rodney caught the gleam of Sequoia's white teeth as he twisted back around, bringing his blaster to bear.

"Watch out!" Rodney hollered. "He doesn't have a gun, he's got a—a phaser, with a kill setting—"

The big hand that cracked across his jaw might as well have been a two by four; it snapped his head back hard enough to set his ears ringing, and he tasted blood, which was always nauseating. But at least it hadn't been in vain, because when he dragged up his head, Captain Sequoia's killer space blaster lay on the cement, out of reach, while the big man himself grappled with a lithe blur of black catsuit and auburn hair and flashing silver sticks.

That Teyla had her ninja rods out and the guy was still standing was disconcerting. Any reasonable human being should be curled up on the floor in bruised and battered agony by now. But the human tree didn't seem likely to fall anytime soon. He'd ripped off his jacket and tossed it aside, so the bulk of his muscles were visible, straining under his white shirt. And he still was grinning, as he blocked one of Teyla's swings and then swept his big leg around.

Teyla jumped over the kick as nimbly as a schoolgirl skipping rope. She was smiling, too, Rodney saw in a glimpse, fierce and feral, and how the hell had he ended up partnered with a certified crazy woman, again?

Rodney squirmed in the chair, yanking at the ropes binding his wrists and ankles. Right now they looked evenly matched, but if the big man got a chance to go for his blaster—Teyla wasn't using her sidearm, hoping to take the guy down alive, but he might not take the same considerations.

Then Sequoia got in a lucky blow, catching Teyla in the neck and sending her staggering back into the boxes behind her, knocking over the stack. She tripped, didn't lose her footing entirely but faltered, and the big man stepped in to press the advantage.

"Teyla!" Rodney shouted, and tried to lunge forward. He succeeded in rocking himself onto his feet, still tied to the chair, curled over like a hunchback. He tried to hop, but overbalanced, felt himself begin to tip, but it was too late to compensate. He hit the cement hard on his shoulder, jarring his teeth together, and the metal chair legs crashed on the floor with a crack like a gunshot.

The big man snapped around, ready for attack, and then stared down at Rodney, sprawled on the ground with the chair folded around him like some failed exoskeleton prototype. For a second he gaped—only a second, but it was enough. Teyla threw herself forward, tucking her legs in as she rolled, and came onto her feet again holding the red-lit blaster.

"Do not move," she said evenly, and the firearm was rock-steady in her hands, though her shoulders heaved as she panted for breath.

Sequoia looked down his blaster's barrel and put up his massive arms. He wasn't smiling now, at least. Blood was trickling down the side of his face from a cut on his cheek; Teyla had gotten at least one good crack in.

"Who are you?" Teyla demanded. "Who do you work for?"

Rodney saw the glitter of something between the man's big fingers, realized with a start that it was the silver band of his own watch. And the man had tossed his tuxedo jacket aside; it lay in a crumpled heap of black fabric at Teyla's feet, and in its pockets were Rodney's cufflinks—

"Teyla, look out, the tux—!" he shouted, as the man hit the detonator.

Teyla threw herself aside, arms crossed over her face, as the jacket went up in a burst of noise and white flames that would have been giddily impressive in the lab, but was a good deal more rattling in the field. Rodney felt a blast of heat across his face like a furnace door had been opened, squeezed his eyes shut as he instinctively flinched back.

When he blinked away the brilliant afterimages, the tuxedo had been reduced to instant ash, and the big man was nowhere in sight.

Teyla picked herself up off the floor. Her sleeves looked a little singed but otherwise she was unhurt, and Rodney heaved a sigh of relief as he let himself flop down on the ground, as well as he could, still being attached to the folding chair.

"Rodney, are you injured?" Teyla asked. She tucked the big man's blaster under her belt, then drew a serrated knife from her belt and sliced through the ropes around Rodney's wrists and his ankles.

"I'm okay," Rodney said. "Relatively speaking," though it hurt to stand, with his back cramped and pins and needles tingling through his limbs. Teyla took his hand and helped pull him upright. He looked around the storage room, the fallen boxes and the broad scorch mark on the floor, like someone had been roasting illicit marshmallows. "Are we still in the Atlantis?"

"The basement, yes."

"Funny that security hasn't gotten here by now."

"I believe your abductor may have deactivated the alarms," Teyla said. "And I believe I kept them deactivated, if I properly understood your program. I thought it might limit potential casualties, going in by myself."

Rodney rubbed his sore wrists. "I'm surprised Landry let you come in without backup."

Teyla's deep brown gaze slid off Rodney's face to fix on a point on the wall past his head. "I may have neglected to appraise the general of the situation."

Rodney blinked at his partner. "You didn't tell Landry?"

"There was little chance to do so," Teyla said stiffly. "And little need. With your implant I could trace your location, and while this room was blocked from the security cameras, I monitored the surrounding area and determine there was no ambush. It was faster to proceed at my own discretion, rather than wait for General Landry's decision. Especially when I wasn't sure he would make the right one."

"The right one?" Rodney repeated in confusion, then shook his head. "So what about Sheppard?" he asked, as they made their way out of the storage room. The narrow corridors beyond were empty of employees. Rodney eyed the security camera in the corner and wondered if one of them might have caught the big man escaping—probably he had been too careful for that, but it was worth checking. "Did you find him?"

"No," Teyla said. "He wasn't in any of the camera footage I could find. I was thinking he might perhaps have been kidnapped with you. Or is this other man in Sheppard's employ after all?"

"I don't think so, no," Rodney said. "He seems to be after Project ATA, too—working for a private contractor, it sounded like. Not G.O.A.U.L.D., either."

"So he abducted you to eliminate the competition?"

"Maybe." Rodney frowned. "He wanted to know what Project ATA was. Or what was in Sheppard's briefcase, anyway."

"Then why did he not abduct Sheppard instead?" Teyla asked. "Or did he already take Sheppard, perhaps, along with the briefcase, and was hoping for your cooperation in whatever he wished to do with it?"

"I don't know. He wasn't talking like he had Sheppard, anyway. Though in that case, we still don't know what the hell happened to our actual target."

"G.O.A.U.L.D.?" Teyla said, as always brave enough to put voice to the unmentionable.

Rodney suppressed a shudder. "I hope not." He didn't know John Sheppard from Adam, but he wouldn't wish that fate on anyone except his worst enemies—and most of them were G.O.A.U.L.D. anyway, so. "We don't know for sure if they're involved. And if they are trying to purchase Project ATA through KaibaCorp, they wouldn't need to snatch Sheppard anyway. It's more likely someone else has him, and Project ATA—we just have no idea who." And wasn't Landry going to be thrilled to hear it.

Still in the service corridors, Rodney borrowed Teyla's handheld computer—his abductor having taken his own, and likely blown it up along with the jacket—and plugged it into a local hookup to check the building schematics. He found them a route back to the hotel proper that skipped the casino floors; they could do without the crowds after this afternoon. His tux was wrinkled, and Teyla's sleek black outfit was enough to inspire riots even without the scorching at the edges.

They still faced a few stares in the elevator, but Rodney squared his jaw belligerently and Teyla met all raised eyebrows with a steady, equanimous gaze that stifled any questions. When they were alone again in the hallway, Rodney remarked, "So we should probably contact the general."

"Yes," Teyla said. "I can do it; I did fail to locate Sheppard."

This was why Teyla was such an infuriating partner—it was more comfortable to lay the blame on people who weren't so calmly accepting of it. "Yes, but...I'm the one who lost track of him in the first place," Rodney admitted.

"We were both watching him," Teyla said. "And once you were captured, I made the decision to look for you before him."

"I thought you were looking for me hoping to find Sheppard with me."

"Yes," Teyla said. "But you were the one I knew I would find."

"Well. Um." Rodney ducked his head as he dug in his pocket for their door's keycard. "Anyway, I'm personally glad you picked the option that meant I didn't get killed. Thank you."

"You are welcome, Rodney," Teyla said, smiling at him warmly for no discernible reason.

He found the card, pulled it out, but before he slid it through the electronic lock, he automatically checked the handheld, and frowned. They had hung the do-not-disturb sign on the handle, but, "It looks like someone's unlocked this since—"

Their hotel room door cracked open, enough to admit the slim black barrel of a pistol, aimed at Teyla's head. Behind the gun, John Sheppard's gold-green eyes studied them lazily from under his ridiculous hair. "Hi," he drawled. "Welcome back. You two want to come in here—slowly, with your hands on your heads—and explain why you've been following me?"


	2. Act II: "To rightly find something, we must truly understand why we are seeking it."

"Even in a place as swanky as this, a few hundred dollars go a long ways towards opening locked doors," Sheppard said. "Or for finding out which doors you want to unlock." He sat down in the chair, crossed his legs and put the heels of his boots up on the polished metal top of his X-T attaché case. With his pistol he indicated Teyla. "You've locked it?"

Teyla turned back from the room door and nodded.

"Okay, then join him on the bed," Sheppard told her, his gaze shifting between her and Rodney—not a nervous twitch, but smoothly observant, tracking both of them with the ease of experience. A decade of Special Ops was equal to a decade of espionage training, apparently. Sheppard was making them keep their distance exactly, close enough that his semiautomatic wouldn't miss, far enough away that they couldn't jump him.

Teyla sat next to Rodney on the foot of the bed, not quite touching, her hands clasped in her lap, as instructed. Her expression was utterly calm, Rodney saw, glancing at her profile out of the corner of his eye. Whether she was actually unafraid or simply unshakably restrained was anyone's guess.

"Now," Sheppard said, "who are you guys?"

"We might ask you the same question," Teyla said coolly. "You are the one in our hotel room."

Sheppard smiled, a quirk of his loose mouth that looked like it could use more practice. "Fair enough. I'm John Sheppard. I like Ferris wheels, college football, and anything that goes more than 200 miles per hour." His eyes flicked between them again, and he leaned back in the chair. The pistol in his hand stayed steady on them. "But you knew that already."

"Why would we know that already?" Rodney blustered. "You break into our hotel room and hold me and my—my wife at gunpoint, and expect us to know you—what are you, some kind of middle-aged superstar? Or do you simply suffer from delusions of notoriety—if you regularly take medication, I'd advise checking your dose." He leaned forward as he ranted, to press his case, and to change the angle of his hands, so Sheppard wouldn't notice when he drew the handheld computer out from his sleeve where he had slipped it, cupping it in his loosely clasped hands. "We've never seen you before; why would we have any idea who you are?"

"Huh," Sheppard said, "that's interesting, considering how much I've seen of you in the last couple days. You and your...wife," and his lazy drawl imbued the final word with just enough doubt to be insulting. "Everywhere I've gone, one or the other of you has shown up. And then, when I come in here, you've got these," and he tilted his head toward the computer consoles arrayed over the desk and bureau. "I was figuring you might have tapped into hotel security, that's why I was avoiding the cameras. But I didn't expect a set-up like this. It's pretty sweet—unless you're doing it without the hotel's permission, and then it's damn impressive."

"Yes, it is, isn't it," Rodney said automatically, pleased. Teyla elbowed him in the ribs and he coughed. "That is—um—"

"Is it all for watching me?" Sheppard asked, sounding genuinely curious. "Or are you running an open-season blackmail business?"

"Blackmail?" Rodney repeated scornfully. "You think we'd waste these kind of resources on—"

"Because if that's your game," Sheppard said, "I'm afraid you're out of luck with me. Even if I had the money, there's nothing you can get on me that would cause more problems with my brother than I've already got, and otherwise I don't have any reputation to lose."

"We are not blackmailers," Teyla said.

"What, then? Don't tell me Dave's finally gotten sick enough of me to hire pros to knock me off, I won't buy it. Well, probably not. How cheap are your rates?"

"We're not hired killers, either!" Rodney protested. "Jesus, what do we look like, thugs?" Within his cupped hands, he thumbed through the handheld's menus, opening a connection to his primary computer on the desk behind Sheppard. With only a touchpad he couldn't do anything impressive, but he didn't need to now; this had worked well enough with the big guy before...

"So what are you?" Sheppard asked.

Teyla hesitated a moment, then said, "Have you ever heard of the S.G.C.?"

"Seacouver Gambling Commission?" Sheppard hazarded.

"Not quite," Rodney said. "It's a top secret multinational organization, dedicated to preserving the peace via various clandestine operations."

"If it's top secret, why are you telling me about it?"

Rodney sighed and looked at Teyla. "Do you sometimes get the nagging feeling that we might actually be the worst spies ever?"

Teyla kept her gaze on Sheppard. "It has crossed my mind," she said levelly.

Rodney leaned back on the bed, bracing his hands behind him. After the time tied to the chair, the position aggravated his sore muscles, but he tried to make it look as natural as possible. His left hand rested on the mattress behind Teyla, close enough for him to touch her back. The handheld computer was in his right hand, thumb hovering over the activation button.

"So what does the S.G.C. want with me?" Sheppard asked.

Rodney placed three fingers on the small of Teyla's back, then withdrew one. She didn't glance at him, but her spine stiffened imperceptibly as she readied herself for the countdown. "It's not you we want," Rodney answered, as he removed his second finger. "It's what you're doing with what's in that shiny briefcase."

"That?" Sheppard's eyes flicked momentarily down to the attaché case. At the same time, Rodney withdrew his last finger from Teyla's back, and hit the handheld's pad.

The speakers behind Sheppard exploded into a horrible snarling, snorting noise that could have been mistaken for a roll of thunder or the growl of a sabertoothed tiger. It was, in fact, a recording of Sheppard's own snoring, amplified to absurd decibels, but Sheppard didn't know that. He knocked over the X-T case, launching himself out of the chair, eyes not wide with surprise but narrowed in expectation of attack.

But he'd looked away for the crucial moment; Teyla was already in motion. Closing the distance between them in one bound, she grabbed Sheppard's gun hand and wrenched the pistol aside, towards the wall, while pulling her own concealed Walther P22 and putting it to his temple. "Freeze, please."

Sheppard took a breath and let it go, otherwise staying motionless, while Teyla plucked the sidearm from his hand and handed it back to Rodney. Rodney aimed the heavy .45 at its owner as Teyla took her gun from his head and stepped back, but she kept the Walther trained on Sheppard as well.

Sheppard looked at her gun, and Rodney, and said, with another wry quirk of a smile, "So, assassins after all?"

"No, we are not," Teyla said.

"Did you miss the part about preserving the peace?" Rodney said. "We're the good guys. For instance, you'll note that we're not the ones about to sell dangerous military hardware to G.O.A.U.L.D.."

"Who selling what to which, now?"

"We know about Project ATA," Teyla said, with implacable confidence; listening to her, Rodney almost believed they actually did know anything whatsoever about it.

"You do," Sheppard said. "Okay. And...?"

"You're here to sell it off to Kaiba Corporation," Rodney said. "We can't allow that."

Sheppard's eyes narrowed. "So I take it you're the reason Mr. Kaiba didn't make his appointment today."

"Yes," Teyla said.

"Why does a top-secret espionage organization care about what's getting sold to an entertainment company? KaibaCorp's most famous product is a children's card game," Sheppard said. With his laidback drawl he was able to affect ingenuous confusion with ease. Between that and the hair, it was hard to remember how smart the man really was.

"It's not KaibaCorp, it's who is subsidizing them."

"You mean the—what'd you say, Gold? Ghoul?"

"G.O.A.U.L.D.," Rodney said. "The Global Organization of Autocratic Universal Leaders and Deities."

Sheppard's eyebrows shot up, making a break for his absurd hairline. "You're kidding."

"I wish," Rodney said. "We're the good guys, they're the bad guys. The really bad guys. They believe they only have one place in this world, and that's on top, ruling over all the rest of us poor saps. And that's who you're handing Project ATA to, if you go through with this deal."

"As a matter of fact," Sheppard said, "I think you might be misinformed." He reached down, hefted his case into his lap and draped his arms over it. "You can tell your bosses I'm not planning on handing ATA over to anyone—like I already told them."

"Like you told them?" Teyla repeated, but before she could ask she was drowned out by a shrieking siren wail. Rodney ducked instinctively, before belatedly recognizing the hotel's fire alarm.

Both Teyla and Sheppard were looking at him. Rodney raised his hands from the handheld. "It's not me!" Teyla met his eyes, his own question showing in her expression. "If he's after Sheppard..." Rodney said.

"Then he wants him outside, perhaps," Teyla agreed. "So he may have pulled the alarm?"

"Or else set it off for real," Rodney said. Captain Sequoia might be unhinged enough to start a fire to get what he wanted. Even if he wasn't G.O.A.U.L.D., he hadn't displayed any obvious ethical standards.

"Then we must exit the building," Teyla said.

"Yeah," Rodney said. He waved Sheppard's pistol at the man himself, for emphasis. "And if you've got any brains, or at least self-preservation instincts, under that hair, you'll stick with us."

"Sure," Sheppard said, idly, like he didn't have anything better to do, and he picked up the briefcase and followed them out of the hotel room. Rodney secured the door behind them, taking a moment to add an extra encryption to the lock, so no one else could be let in no matter how much cash they waved around.

The stairwells were lit with yellow emergency lights and jammed with people, everybody babbling anxiously under the deafening screech of the alarm. Rodney bulldozed down through the crowd, with Teyla behind him and Sheppard sandwiched between them, Teyla's small concealed Walther making sure he stayed there.

At least it did, until on the third floor landing they were jostled by a panicked pair of honeymooners fighting their way upstream, trying to get back to their room before their pet poodle or family jewels or whatever burned. They almost shoved Teyla over the railing, and Rodney moved to help her, only to be slammed back by the heel of Sheppard's palm direct in his solar plexus.

Winded by the blow almost to the point of blacking out, Rodney barely heard Sheppard mutter in passing, "If you really are the good guys—sorry."

Rodney staggered. Teyla grabbed his arm, dragged him to the corner of the landing, keeping him from falling and being trampled. "Sheppard?" Rodney wheezed.

Teyla shook her head. In the yellow light, her eyes looked black.

"What are the chances Sheppard arranged that alarm himself?" Rodney wondered.

"I cannot guess," Teyla said.

"Oh, yeah," Rodney muttered, rubbing his hands over face. "Landry is going to _love_ this mission report."

 

* * *

 

"Have you tried tracking Sheppard's cell phone access?" Landry asked.

"Hey, why didn't we think of doing something logical like that, rather than running around the Atlantis's central spire, shouting Sheppard's name? Oh wait, we did think of it, seeing as we're professionals and not complete nincompoops." Rodney ignored the look Teyla threw at him. He remembered the general signed their paychecks, but it had been a very long day. "If he's using a cell now, it's not one contracted under his real name. Sheppard knows we're looking for him, he's gone to ground, and atypically, I don't think we can rely on mind-boggling stupidity on his part to catch him."

"Then you'll just have to be better than him," Landry said. "If Sheppard gets away, with Project ATA—"

"Yes, yes, we know, all of civilization at risk, fire, flood, plague, locusts, et cetera. So what else is new?"

Usually Landry just ignored his sarcasm, but now he gave Rodney a long, serious look over the video feed. Rodney supposed he should try to sound a little more concerned. It wasn't that he didn't care. But they had just been stuck outside in the arid desert evening for almost an hour while the hotel looked into what had been (so the patrons had been assured) a minor electrical fire, nothing to worry about, move along—and failed to find a trace of Sheppard, or the big man after him. And if the hotel happened to re-examine their security because of the fire alarm, odds were that they'd come across Rodney's taps. And Landry was as tight-lipped as ever about why the S.G.C. gave a damn about Sheppard, continuing to deny any knowledge of the particulars of Project ATA, and Rodney was getting a migraine, and biting his tongue just wasn't worth the effort.

Fortunately, that was what he had a partner for. "General Landry," Teyla said, nudging Rodney aside to center herself in the camera's scope, as patient and reasonable as ever, "Sheppard did deny knowledge of G.O.A.U.L.D. And he claimed that he had no intention of selling Project ATA—in fact, he said that he had already told you so? Though we're unsure what he meant by that."

"Ms. Emmagan," Landry said, "as I'm sure you and Dr. McKay are now aware, John Sheppard is a very dangerous man. Whatever his actual plans are for Project ATA, he hasn't revealed them to anyone. You can't expect that anything he said to you, at gunpoint under duress, bore any resemblance to the truth."

"Of course not," Rodney said, thinking of the man's artlessly indolent drawl, too guileless to be real. And then there was the weird apology he'd muttered on the stairwell. "But until we figure out what he's actually up to—"

"It's too late for that." On the computer screen, Landry's round face looked old and worn, drooping at the edges. "Ms. Emmagan, Dr. McKay, you are hereby authorized by the S.G.C., with the sanction of the I.O.A., to use whatever force necessary to stop John Sheppard, up to and including lethal."

"Wait, what—"

Landry's face was tired, but his eyes were hard. "Have I made myself clear?"

Teyla put a hand on Rodney's arm to quiet him. "We understand, General Landry," she said, and reached past Rodney to switch off the video link.

Rodney gaped for several seconds at the blank screen before he found his voice. "What the hell was that?"

"These are not the first such orders we have received," Teyla reminded him evenly.

"Yes, when we're going up against G.O.A.U.L.D. kingpins—Sheppard's just a guy. He's a business tycoon, for god's sake. A business tycoon lugging around some kind of super-weapon, maybe, but still..."

"Whatever Project ATA is," Teyla said, "it frightens the I.O.A. badly."

"Obviously. The question is why." Rodney frowned. "My web-search bots for Project ATA have turned up squat, not even rumors. It'd help if we had any idea what it stood for—I keep ending up on tae-kwan-do and trucking association sites."

"Sheppard does not look like a clandestine trucker to you?" Teyla inquired. When Rodney looked at her, she tilted her lips up just enough and no more.

Rodney snorted. "It'd be better for him if he was." He drummed his fingers on the desk. "Ironic, isn't it? In a horrible way. We just told the guy we weren't assassins, and now..."

"What it comes down to," Teyla said, "is whether we trust the S.G.C. to give us the right directives, even if not complete information."

"Yeah," Rodney said. "And isn't that a bitch." He spun his chair around to face his partner directly. "So do you? Trust them?"

Teyla hesitated, just long enough for Rodney to see it. "I trust people in the S.G.C.."

"Is Landry one of them?"

Teyla inclined her head in an assured way that might have been a nod, but really was no answer whatsoever. "And you, Rodney, do you trust them?"

"You know I don't trust anyone. Especially anyone who works for the government. Any government," Rodney said. "But it's not like Sheppard's any more trustworthy. And if Project ATA has the I.O.A. this freaked out..."

"We should learn more about this project."

"It's top-secret," Rodney said. "Classified by the I.O.A. itself, very need-to-know, and if we needed to know, we would. Right now, our orders are to find Sheppard. " Find him, and then...

"To rightly find something," Teyla said, tranquil as a frozen pond, "we must truly understand why we are seeking it."

"Very Zen," Rodney said. "Don't know if General Landry would agree, but..." Whatever Project ATA was, the I.O.A. had a vested interest in it. Hacking federal databases was one thing, but the I.O.A. tended to get testy when its own authority was breached; the uneasy alliances between its member states made for a very touchy agency.

Rodney had screwed up before, making the wrong choice, and had paid for it with his entire scientific career. The level of security classification he had now had taken a decade to earn back. If he broke their confidence now, they wouldn't just strip him of his clearances; they'd throw him in prison. Hell, if preserving Project ATA's secrecy was worth enough to them, they could do worse than that; some of the nations on the I.O.A. board still had the death penalty for treason on their books.

Teyla watched him, not fidgeting, perfectly patient. She knew the stakes as well as he did; she was waiting for him to decide. No censure, no pressure.

"Okay," Rodney said. "Okay, let's figure out what ATA is, before we decide whether we're going to kill for it."

Teyla's dark eyes were intent. "Are you sure?"

Rodney smiled, trying for bravado, suspecting it came off more sickly. "What the hell, it's just a job. It's not like I'm married to the spy game."

"Rodney." Teyla's smile took him by surprise—beautiful as always and not any larger than the usual Mona Lisa curve of her lips, but brighter somehow. "Of the people in the S.G.C.—you, I trust."

"Yeah." Rodney felt his cheeks go hot, ducked his head and swiveled his chair back toward his computer monitors, before he made a complete idiot of himself. "Me, too."

 

* * *

 

Rodney was a genius, and had the degrees and the indictments to prove it, but even the best hacker can't find data that doesn't exist. Around three AM, Teyla convinced him that sleep deprivation wasn't conducive to computer espionage—either that or she was having trouble sleeping herself over the clacking of his keyboard. So he staggered to bed, only to rouse before seven, brain buzzing with alternative infiltration strategies as he poured himself coffee from the pot in the room. If the NSA still had that backdoor after their latest upgrade...

His plans were interrupted when he switched on his main monitor and was confronted by a blinking message box. He brought up the window, read it and blinked. "Son of a bitch..."

"What is it?"

Teyla had been sound asleep, but now she was entirely awake, sitting up in her bed with her eyes open and not bleary. Her conservative cotton pajamas weren't so much as wrinkled; even her hair was barely mussed. Rodney, who would need at least two more cups of coffee before he could focus his eyes without blinking, drew his bathrobe closer and pawed at his head to flatten his fluffy, thinning hair.

"Does it concern ATA?" Teyla asked, pouring herself a cup of hot water and selecting a tea bag before joining him by the computer.

"No," Rodney said, gulping the last of his coffee. "But the DNA trace found our new friend from yesterday." He gestured with the empty cup to the screen, displaying an ID photo of a young man. Though his hair in the old ID was longer, and he had no beard, the eyes were the same. And blood didn't lie; this man's was a match to the genetic material left on Teyla's ninja sticks.

"Ronon Dex," Teyla read off the screen. "So who is he?"

"Who was he, you mean," Rodney corrected. "I was running the DNA through military databases—his height narrowed the search significantly, I would've found him sooner, except that my original parameters only included the living. According to Dex's death certificate here, he passed on seven years ago."

Teyla raised an eyebrow. "He seemed to be quite animate yesterday."

"Yeah, you noticed?"

Teyla studied Dex's image. "You said military databases. So he was killed in action?"

"Yes and no. He was discharged from the US Army nine years ago, became a mercenary for hire, working for a small private military contractor, Sateda Security."

"I am not familiar with that PMC."

"Probably because they don't exist anymore," Rodney said, bringing up another window. "I just looked up Sateda—they went bankrupt seven years back, right when Dex supposedly died—he wasn't the only one. An action in eastern Europe went bad..." He scanned the text, whistled low. "Or went to hell, more like. It seems like Sateda went under because they lost most of their personnel in one fell swoop."

"What was the operation?" Teyla asked, reading over his shoulder.

"Classified," Rodney said, but that was no problem; S.G.C. agent clearance couldn't get him the goods on ATA, but when he plugged in his password on the investigation file, it logged him straight through. He skimmed the report. "They were hired as security for a conference that—damn." Rodney sat back in his seat.

"What?" Teyla asked; she didn't read nearly as fast as he could.

"No one knows what really happened," Rodney said grimly, "because no one—supposedly, anyway—got out alive. But the S.G.C. investigated—Sateda was an international company, employed ex-military from a dozen different countries, so we claimed jurisdiction—and according to this, that 'conference' was arranged by folks with some seriously unpleasant connections."

"G.O.A.U.L.D.?" Teyla guessed.

"No." Rodney hesitated, but she could just read it for herself anyway. "The Wraith sect."

Teyla went frighteningly still, utterly and completely, like time itself had stopped around her. She didn't say anything, but Rodney heard her intake of breath, a faint sharp hiss over the humming computer equipment.

Not knowing what else to do, Rodney fidgeted with his wireless trackball, spinning the ball in its socket and twirling the pointer around the screen, as he babbled, "That's the suspicion, anyway, looks like there's no actual proof, because no one turned up afterwards to confirm or deny—"

"No," Teyla said. "There would not be anyone." She didn't look at Rodney, eyes on the screen, on Dex's ID photo. "But if it were the Wraith, then Ronon Dex should not be here now."

"He must have gotten away," Rodney said.

"Not if they were Wraith," Teyla said softly.

"Well, you saw him—the guy is good. And I know the stories about what the Wraith can do, but they're only human, right, whatever crazy rituals they're into—" Rites that made Aztec blood sacrifices look like a country fair square-dance, from what he'd heard, but those were only rumors...

"They were _Wraith_," Teyla repeated.

Rodney really wished she wouldn't say it like that; it always made his skin crawl. Like they were actual ghosts, rather than a grotesque renegade cult. And yeah, he didn't want to think about the kind of experience Teyla had had with them, that made her say the name like that—he'd never asked his partner about those sealed parts of her personnel file, always assumed it wasn't something she wanted to talk about, anymore than he wanted to hear it. But it was still damn creepy. "Then maybe Dex joined the cult? Drank the Kool-Aid, signed on board."

Teyla froze for another moment, then shook her head, so forcefully that her auburn hair whipped about her cheeks. "No. He is not one of them."

"Are you sure?" Rodney asked. "He does have a stun-gun, and the Wraith are supposed to have developed their own model."

"He is not Wraith," Teyla said. "I have fought him; I would know if he were."

"Then maybe he's working for them," Rodney suggested. "If he was a mercenary for hire, maybe they've hired him."

"To come here—to find John Sheppard." Teyla's eyes widened. "Rodney, if Sheppard, or Project ATA, somehow involves the Wraith—"

"It would explain why the I.O.A. is freaking out," Rodney said.

"If Sheppard is making a deal with the Wraith," Teyla said, her voice gone soft and bitterly cold, "then I will not hesitate."

Her eyes were absolute zero, as if any warmth he ever might have seen in them had only been imagined. Rodney couldn't meet them, looked back to his computer instead. "Okay, so let's ask him if that's what's going on."

Teyla blinked, her brow knitting. "Ask who?"

"Ronon Dex." Rodney waved at the screen. "The S.G.C.'s dossier has a couple pseudonyms he used to go by, and one's in use now, registered at a hotel two blocks from here."

Teyla blinked again. "That is very fast work, Rodney."

"Yes, it is," Rodney agreed. "Um, provided this Jason Ioane isn't actually the Hawaiian surfer he's supposed to be..."

"Let us find out," Teyla said, calmly, but she wasn't smiling.

 

* * *

 

Jason Ioane's hotel was a couple stars below the Atlantis, which meant lower security; they walked through the lobby in the camouflage of a crowd of German tourists, and no one even noticed them taking the elevator.

Thinking there was a good chance Dex was out Sheppard-hunting, Rodney had brought a panoply of bugs, audio and visual observation devices, both wireless and self-contained. But when they reached Room 605, before he could check the lock, Teyla raised her hand. _"He is inside,"_ she mouthed.

Rodney nodded, bowing to her uncanny instincts—not that he believed in psychic powers, but Teyla's skills would give any skeptic a run for their money. They walked past the room without a change in stride, and Rodney kept walking, letting his footsteps fall heavy and loud, while Teyla circled back, light-footed as a cat.

The cleaning staff was occupied on a lower floor, and there was a tray left in the hall a few doors down. Teyla picked it up without rattling the dishes, placed the lid back over the empty plate and then brought it to 605. She rapped on the door and pitched her voice to an unrecognizable alto. "Room service, sir."

Rodney was too far down the hall to hear if there were any answer, but in a moment the door lock rattled. Teyla kept her head down, bending over the tray, hiding her face.

It didn't help. The door swung in suddenly, and Dex came out like a lion charging into the Colosseum, aiming for a meal of hapless Christians. Teyla's gun was still in its concealed holster, but it probably wouldn't have helped her anyway; Dex was fast enough, and crazy enough, that a bullet would probably just get him angry.

Teyla was faster, though. She dropped the tray with a crash, slipped out of his check like water and went for a throw that Rodney had seen take down sumo wrestlers. But Dex avoided it by a hair, then twisted to lock a huge arm around Teyla's neck, and hauled her up, her feet almost off the ground.

"Surprise, meeting you here," he growled in her ear.

"Yeah, isn't it?" Rodney said, and fired Dex's own blaster at his broad back. The stun beam flashed red around him, and then he went down. Rodney resisted the urge to yell, _"Timber!"_

Teyla only just got out of the way of that toppling tree in time. She gazed down at Dex, rubbing her neck thoughtfully.

"That _was_ stun, right?" Rodney asked nervously as he approached.

"His breathing is fine," Teyla confirmed.

"Good." Rodney shoved the blaster under his jacket and leaned over Dex's fallen body. "That's what you get for trying to strangle my partner...again."

 

* * *

 

The old 'excuse my buddy, he's had too much to drink' ploy was a bit awkward with a 'buddy' as big as Dex, but with some artful misdirection Rodney and Teyla managed to maneuver his unconscious bulk out of the hotel and into their rental car with no one the wiser. At the rattrap motel on the strip, nobody cared what state he was in, whatever time of the morning it was; the desk attendant handed Rodney a key without looking up from the porn playing on his video iPod.

They took extra care securing their captive to the wooden chair—returning the favor, Rodney thought with a guilty but undeniable hint of satisfaction, as he pulled the reinforced plastic ties tight. Still, when Dex groaned, he startled and scrambled back instinctively before he caught himself, straightened up and adjusted his tie and pretended he was facing a roomful of clueless grad students and not a trained killer.

Dex's big body tensed against the bonds, but none of them gave. Then he jerked up his head, turned it back and forth, his hazel eyes roaming over the dingy motel room, before sliding over Rodney to stop on Teyla. He opened his mouth. "How long?" he asked in a hoarse croak.

Remembering how dry his own mouth had been after being stunned, Rodney sympathized. Though not enough to offer him water. The guy would probably grab the glass in his teeth and smash Rodney over the head with it. Rodney breathed deep and tried not to fidget. Teyla remained impassive, arms crossed, staring at Dex from several feet away. Even sitting, he barely had to look up to meet her eyes.

Dex licked his lips. "How long have I been out?" he asked again. When Teyla didn't answer, Dex wrenched at the ties around his wrists, his biceps bulging in ways that Schwarzenegger would envy. "Damn it, how long?!"

He was half-shouting, but he didn't sound enraged so much as panicked. Maybe not actually scared, but anxious. Closing on desperate, even, and Rodney didn't want to think about what the hell would drive a guy like this to desperation.

Besides, interrogation was all very well, but until they started asking questions there wasn't much point to torture. "It's been about an hour since I stunned you," Rodney said, checking his watch. "A little less."

Dex stopped struggling, relaxing so suddenly the chair creaked as his weight settled on it again. "Okay," he said. Then he turned his head to angle a look at Rodney. "_You_ stunned me?"

Rodney bristled. "What, you think I don't know how to use a gun? I am a secret agent, you know. And figuring out your blaster's grand total of two settings wasn't exactly rocket science—though I can do that, too, when required—"

Dex looked from Rodney back to Teyla, dropped his bass another half-octave and growled, "You got to let me go."

"Yeah, sure, we'll get right on that, since you asked so nicely," Rodney said. "You weren't too eager to let me go, when the shoe was on the other foot. Or the ties on the other wrists, whichever."

Dex glanced back to him, but only for a second, a flicker of his eyes, and then he appealed to Teyla again. "You don't know what you're dealing with. Let me go."

Teyla's voice cracked like a whip. "Do you work for _them_?"

To Rodney's surprise, Dex didn't ask for clarification. Instead he pulled back his head, arching his neck like a starting horse, and stared at Teyla from under his brows. "You know them?"

"Too well." If Teyla's tone was cold, that was nothing compared to the darkness in her eyes. The vacuum between the galaxies would be warmer. No good cop for this interrogation.

"I'm no Wraith worshiper," Dex said, and the disgust in his voice was almost a match for hers.

"But are you doing their will?" Teyla demanded.

Dex's hesitation was brief, but just long enough that Rodney winced. "No," the big man said, but a hint of that desperation crept into his tone again. "I'm not."

The edge in Teyla's voice was sharp enough to score a diamond. "You lie."

Any ordinary, sane person would have been begging for mercy, now, before Teyla laid a hand on them. But Dex squared his broad shoulders, drew himself up against the bonds. "No," he denied. "I'm not theirs. He's not one of them."

"'He'? Who's he?" Rodney asked.

Dex's gaze flicked to him again. "You wouldn't know. Wouldn't get it."

"Try us," Rodney challenged. "We get a lot more than you'd think. We have to, to make it in this business. And we're pretty damn good at what we do."

"Yeah?"

"We caught you, didn't we? And you haven't gotten away yet. So who's the worse spy, hmm?"

Dex snorted. "Not a spy."

"Who do you work for?" Teyla rapped out. When their missions called for it, Rodney had seen her charm the pants off half a dozen hardened criminals—a couple times literally, disturbingly enough—but her icy anger now was truer than any beguiling wiles she might employ.

And Dex, Rodney realized, respected her for it. As much as Teyla had respected him, before this Wraith business came up. He met her eyes boldly, said, "He goes by Michael."

"Michael?" Rodney repeated, frowning, and then he got a good look at his partner's face, the blood draining out under her warmly brown complexion, her lips leached of color. Rodney paled, too. "No, it can't be—not—he doesn't mean—"

"How do you know that name?" Teyla said, and her lips might be gray but her tone was solid steel.

"You know we're S.G.C.," Rodney said, "you're just name-dropping..." but that didn't make sense; the Michael affair was so classified even most of their fellow agents hadn't heard of it. Dex couldn't have known. Unless whoever he was working for was so well-informed that they'd broken the S.G.C.'s most advanced security...

Or else they'd been personally involved. But Michael was supposed to be dead and gone, and this—

Dex looked between them. "You know Michael?"

"What do you do for him?" Teyla asked, so softly Rodney couldn't tell if she were angry, or homicidal, or terrified.

Dex shrugged. "This, that. What he tells me to."

"How," Teyla breathed, "how can you..."

"He's not one of them," Dex said.

"No," Teyla said. "He is worse."

"Yeah, well." Dex's voice was quiet, too, a rumble like a quake's aftershocks. "Don't got much choice."

Teyla's voice made Rodney shudder, it was so preternaturally even. "Why?"

Dex studied her for a moment, then rocked his head forward. "My back," he said. "Base of the neck."

"What—" Rodney started to ask, but Teyla only touched Rodney's shoulder, requested, "Watch him."

Rodney didn't question his partner; he pulled out the blaster and aimed it at Dex. "Okay, I have him covered."

Teyla nodded in recognition, and walked up to Dex in the chair. She undid the top buttons of his white shirt, then circled around to his back, took his collar and pulled the shirt down to reveal the back of his neck, running her fingers down the ridge of his spine. Dex stayed still, not twitching at the touch of her fingers, though they were probably chilly; Teyla's usually were.

"Rodney," Teyla said, quiet and definite.

"What? What is it?" Rodney approached with some trepidation, not lowering the blaster. Dex watched him sidle over, and his set lips might have twisted in a slight smirk, but he didn't try anything, not moving a single impressive muscle.

Teyla took Rodney's free hand—her fingers were cool and dry, as always—lifted it to Dex's neck and placed Rodney's fingers to the skin. He almost resisted, not having any particular interest in stroking a man, no matter how remarkably sculpted his body was, but then he realized Teyla's point. Dex didn't move as he ran his fingers over it—right below the base of the neck, just to the left of the spinal column, was a small mass as solid as the ridges of backbone, swelling just under the skin.

"How long?" Teyla asked, her voice betraying nothing, no hint to Rodney as to the meaning of this.

"Seven years," Dex said.

"You ran for seven years?" and that was surprise, shock, even, which Teyla didn't try to hide.

"Michael found me six months ago. Turned it off. I don't do what he says, he turns it on again." Dex twisted his head around, trying to meet Teyla's eyes over his shoulder. "I don't report back to him in an hour and a half, he turns it on."

"I see," Teyla said, sounding shaken.

"I don't," Rodney said. "What the hell are you talking about, what is that—"

"You have to let me go," Dex said. "Or else leave me, but get out of here. Get far away. It gets turned on, then anyone they see me with—"

"Yes," Teyla said. "I understand."

"Understand what—" Rodney demanded.

Teyla laid a hand on his arm. "We must talk," she said, and throwing a final glance over her shoulder at Dex, still secured to the chair, she walked them out of the motel room.

 

* * *

 

Just past noon, the sun was high overhead, baking the Vegas pavement. It was over a hundred degrees outside, and after the motel's overworked air conditioning, the heat hit like a hammer. Rodney, sweating like a stuck pig the moment the door opened, tugged his tie a couple fingers loose and thought longingly of their last mission to Antarctica.

"We have to help him," Teyla said.

"We have to what, now?"

"Help him," his partner repeated, as they walked around the end of the motel block and into the scant shade cast by the side of the stucco building. "Ronon Dex."

"You mean, the guy who tried to strangle you, twice. Who knocked me out and tied me up. Who wants to do god-knows-what to Sheppard—which we still need to ask him about, seeing as it's why we went through the trouble of capturing him to begin with—"

"He is not our enemy," Teyla said.

"No, he just works for him." Rodney wiped at his forehead, disgusted by the dampness of sweat. Dry heat, his sweet sweltering ass. "If Dex's Michael is really our Michael—"

"He is." Teyla sounded as certain as the sun gleaming in the cloudless sky. "But Ronon does not serve willingly."

"What is that thing in his back?"

"A tracking device," Teyla said. She touched her upper arm, where their subcutaneous S.G.C. transmitters were placed. "Like our own, but more powerful. There is nowhere on Earth that the signal cannot be traced, no way to block it. The Wraith implant them in their prey, occasionally. It is a sport. But for a runner to evade them for seven years..."

"So Dex is good?"

"Very good." Teyla stood only halfway in the shade, but her eyes were dark even in the bright daylight. "Rodney, his enemy is our enemy, and it is in our power to help him. In good conscience, we cannot do anything else."

Rodney was tempted to remind her that one of the alternate appellations suggested for the S.G.C. was "Screw Good Conscience," but by Teyla's expression, she wasn't in the mood to appreciate the irony. Besides, there was something...rattling, about Dex's desperation. Fear was an old friend of Rodney's, and he'd long since decided that better a live coward than a dead hero; but Dex was something different, a wholly other sort of man. That Dex had told them to run, warned them about the Wraith... Rodney had barely talked to the guy—the guy barely talked anyway—but there was something to Dex's bearing, the way he spoke, that made Rodney think things like "courage" and "honor" weren't just words to him.

After ten years on this job, Rodney had come to realize that there weren't enough people like that in the world. And his partner could use the company. "All right, then—"

His instincts registered the movement out of the corner of his eye; he had pulled his sidearm before his conscious mind caught up. "Freeze!"

Teyla had her gun out as well, matching him move for move, aiming at the figure climbing out of the window on the back side of the motel complex. "Do not move," she emphasized.

Ronon Dex looked at their combined firepower and raised his hands. His shadow was short in the high sun, a stubby dark puddle on the sandy ground, and his expression would have been sheepish on a lesser man.

Keeping her gun level, Teyla walked toward him, stopping less than ten feet away. Then, deliberately, she holstered her sidearm, held up her open hands, placatingly. "If you wish to run," she said, "we will let you run."

Dex cocked his head. "But?" he challenged.

"We will not let you touch Sheppard, or what he carries. So if you run now, you will have to keep running. From the Wraith, and likely Michael as well."

Teyla's calm voice didn't make her statement a threat, but a basic fact. Dex didn't move, and he was too far away for Rodney to tell if his expression changed.

Teyla took a step closer—any nearer, and she'd be close enough for Dex to grab her. Rodney ignored the sting of sweat dripping in his eyes, kept his Beretta pointed square at Dex's broad chest. He should've pulled the blaster, he realized belatedly, but too late to swap now. If Dex made a move, he would have to take his chances with a genuine bullet.

"Or," Teyla said, calmly unafraid, "you can come with us, and we can eliminate the hold Michael has on you. The tracking implant can be removed."

Dex jerked back like he had been punched, then steadied himself. "Tried to cut it out," he said flatly. "Couldn't. Doctors couldn't do it, either."

"And was this doctor a world-class surgeon?" Rodney asked. "No? Then trust that we've got better people than an underworld quack."

"Our organization has dealt with similar technology," Teyla said. "Our doctor may be able to take it out."

"May," Dex repeated.

"I will not make you a promise that is not guaranteed," Teyla told him. "Only the Wraith can be that certain."

Dex looked from her, over to Rodney. "So what do you want?"

Rodney doubted Teyla's altruism would be as convincing as his own honesty, so he answered before she did. "We want to know what Michael wants with Sheppard and that briefcase. If we get that implant out of you, you'll tell us whatever you know."

"So," Teyla said, and took another step, putting herself within Dex's long reach. He could grab her gun before Rodney would have time to react, Rodney was almost sure, and Teyla knew it as well as he did. Her trust now was in Dex's honor, not Rodney's limited action skills. "Do we have an agreement?"


	3. Act III: "Would You Happen to Know Anyone Like That?"

"You do realize," Dr. Keller said nervously, "that there's a chance he won't be able to tell you anything, if this procedure fails."

"We know," Rodney said, "but the deal was extraction first, then information."

Keller nodded toward the waiting room. "But does _he_ know the risks?"

"He understands," Teyla said. "The chance to be free is worth the risk to his life."

Teyla was awfully confident, speaking for a man she had known for hardly more than two days, and had been in hand-to-hand combat with for most of that time. On the other hand, trying to kill somebody was one way to get to know them. Especially since Dex wasn't really the chatty type. And Teyla was good with people; Rodney always trusted her to handle those aspects of missions. This time as much as any other.

Keller studied Dex's x-rays again, craning her neck up at the glowing film. "This sucker's really embedded, right against his spine. I've read up on these implants, but I've never done anything like this."

"Jennifer." Teyla laid her hand on the doctor's arm. "You are the best surgeon the S.G.C. has on call; if anyone can do this, you can."

Keller smiled, a little weakly. "Well, if you say so..."

"Doctor?" The office door opened, and the surgical assistant, already in mask and scrubs, poked her head in.

"Yes, Marie?"

"It's the patient. He's refusing anesthetic, he says he's going to stay awake for the procedure."

"What?" Keller shook her head. "That's crazy, he won't be able to stay still enough—" She followed her nurse out of the room.

Rodney looked at Teyla. "Time to cross fingers?"

Teyla nodded. "And pray."

 

* * *

 

Dr. Keller returned a couple of hours later. She'd stripped off her gloves and mask, but there was a little blood spattered on her scrubs. Rodney carefully kept his eyes off the gore, as the doctor reported, "As far as I can determine, it was a complete success. Now the only question is who gets this," and she held up a glass jar containing an ugly black tangle of wires, coated in an unpleasant red slick. More blood.

Rodney swallowed and looked over her shoulder at the tasteful, thankfully black-and-white x-rays. He snapped his fingers at the lab monkey working in the corner, had him bring over the metal box he had prepared. "Put it in here. The thing shouldn't be transmitting now, but just in case, this should shield most of the signal. Then express it to Dr. Zelenka, he should get first crack."

"How is Ronon Dex?" Teyla asked.

Keller stretched and rubbed her neck. "He's in a recovery room, resting comfortably."

"When will he awaken?"

"I don't know." Keller shook his head. "He wouldn't submit to the anesthetic, not even a local. And he managed to keep himself steady for the whole procedure—which, quite frankly, should be physically impossible. Incredible, at any rate. Though he seems like a pretty incredible guy in general...that physique..."

"Yes," Teyla said, with rather more fervent agreement than Rodney really felt was called for.

"But the moment the last of the implant was removed, he passed out. Which did make stitching up his back easier. But he put his body through the wringer; I can't say for sure when he'll wake up."

"If that is the case," Teyla said, heading for the door.

"I'm sorry," Keller started to say, "if you want to go back to your hotel for now, I can let you know when—"

"No need," Rodney said, following his partner. "Knowing this guy, he's awake already."

In fact, Ronon Dex was not only awake, but out of bed and buttoning his shirt when they entered. He turned toward them without any sign of injury, no grimace or hunch to his big shoulders, not even any obvious stiffness. Meeting Teyla's eyes, then Rodney's, then Dr. Keller's behind him, he nodded. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, Ronon," Keller said, sounding flustered.

"Dr. Keller," Teyla said quietly, "if you could give us a moment of privacy."

"Oh, right, of course, Teyla," Keller said, ducking her head, and hurried out, closing the hospital door behind her.

Rodney stepped over to lock it, then reached up to the security camera in the corner and unplugged the lead wire, before taking out his jammer and adjusting it. There were no radio signals being emitted from the room, but better safe than sorry. "Okay, we can talk now."

Dex was looking at his partner. "You're Teyla?"

"Teyla Emmagan," Teyla said, with a smooth bow of her head. "And this is Dr. McKay."

"Dr. Rodney McKay. Pleased to—um, that is—hello," and Rodney stuck out his hand.

Dex took it and shook, squeezing Rodney's fingers with more bruising force than courtesy demanded. "Ronon Dex," he said.

"Yes, yes, we know," Rodney said, shaking out his hand. "Excuse me, but we don't have all day. It's already evening, and we still don't know where Sheppard is, or what ATA is. So, what do you know?"

Dex shook his head. "I don't."

"Oh, now that's helpful!"

Dex arched an eyebrow in Rodney's direction. "You asked for whatever I knew. Didn't specify how much."

Rodney was getting a hunch that they had been played. It was a disagreeably familiar feeling. "You have to know _something_. Some little hint, a clue, whatever. What exactly did Michael tell you about your target?"

"That he was my target," Dex said, and damn it, he didn't have to look so smug about this, arms folded, smirking down at Rodney and Teyla. Like for some reason he was enjoying himself.

Rodney took a breath and strove for the patience Teyla had attempted to coach him in. Count to ten, inner harmony, blah blah blah. "And what did Michael say about your target? Anything whatsoever—did he warn you about anything? Tell you something about how it was supposed to be handled after you stole it, whether you shouldn't drop it, or put it in a freezer or vacuum, anything?"

Dex thought for a moment. "Probably shouldn't drop it or freeze it," he said. "Since Michael wanted it alive."

"Alive?" Teyla echoed.

"Sheppard's got something _alive_ in that briefcase?" Rodney stared. "A product of genetic engineering? A bioweapon?"

"Not the briefcase," Dex said. "My target was Sheppard. Michael wanted what he had with him, too. But mostly he wanted Sheppard."

"Why the hell would he want Sheppard?" Rodney said. "The guy's a businessman, he doesn't have any scientific training. He didn't invent Project ATA, he just funded it."

"Don't know," Dex said. "But Michael wanted him."

"But you do not know why," Teyla asked.

Dex shook his head.

"If Sheppard was your target," Rodney said, "then why'd you grab me? You asked me about the briefcase—if that wasn't your target, why'd you care?"

Smirk fading, Dex shifted uncomfortably—not as if his back were bothering him, but as if the hospital floor under his boots was uneven. "Wanted to know," he rumbled. "Why he was wanted."

"You wanted to know what Michael wanted with Sheppard," Teyla said, not sounding surprised. "Before you carried out your mission—before you gave Michael an innocent man."

Dex nodded, head ducked, sullen as a six-five toddler.

"Hold on, you kidnapped me to try to get information on Sheppard? Did it occur to you to try asking nicely?"

"Rodney," Teyla reminded him quietly, "we did not try asking. Ronon is no different from us. His questions are our own."

"Except that we don't work for a megalomaniac scheming to take over the world." At least, last he checked they didn't. Though who knew what the hell the I.O.A. actually schemed. He and Teyla were just the expendable labor force.

"I don't work for him either, now," Dex reminded them, and his growl held a note of triumph.

"Yes, and the I.O.A. is going to want to talk to you about that, I'm sure," Rodney said. "If you're as helpful answering their questions about Michael as you have been with our questions, you'll be a big hit. I'd get a good look outside these windows now; it's probably the last sun you'll see for a year."

"Rodney," Teyla said, low and cross.

Dex shrugged. "S'okay," he said, sitting down on the bed. It was high enough that his head was still level with Rodney's. "Didn't expect much else, coming here with you."

Rodney stared at him. "You didn't?"

"Better than having that thing in me," Dex said. "And I was screwed anyway, since I wasn't going to do it. Give Sheppard to Michael."

"You weren't? Why not?"

"Sheppard looked like an okay guy. Didn't deserve it," Dex said, so matter-of-factly that he had to be telling the truth.

"You were planning to refuse Michael's orders, and get the Wraith tracking you again, not to mention pissing off Michael himself, because Sheppard looked 'okay'?" No wonder Teyla bonded so easily with the man; Dex was clearly as insane as she was.

Rodney wondered what it felt like, to be able to live by one's principles with such unconditional equanimity, no hesitation and no regrets. As if life were as straightforward and exact as the physical laws of the universe that he'd left behind a decade ago.

"But you know nothing more about Sheppard?" Teyla asked. "Other than what you observed yourself?"

"Which was that he was 'okay'—did you get any more than that?" Rodney chimed in. "Overhear anything about, say, Project ATA?"

Dex frowned in thought. "Michael said ATA once. Didn't tell me what it meant, though. Never heard Sheppard say it. Or anything else special. He just gambled, mostly. Talked to that Japanese guy on the phone a couple times, arranging meetings. Boring business stuff. That's it."

"'Boring business stuff.' Incredible," Rodney said. "I don't know what we would've done without your awesome breadth of observational skills. You should forget about being a soldier, obviously you were born for espionage."

Dex looked at him for a long second, then deliberately turned toward Teyla. "He always like this?"

To her credit, Teyla didn't crack so much as a hint of a smile, and Rodney ignored the possible sparkle in her eyes. "As a rule, yes."

"Yes, let's make fun of Dr. McKay, since we don't have anything better to do. Except our jobs, of course—you never saw Sheppard go anywhere else? A different casino, another hotel?"

Dex shook his head. "Only the Atlantis."

"You're such a great help, I don't know how we'd have gotten by without you."

Teyla glared at him mildly, then looked to Dex. "Do not mind him. Thank you, Ronon, for what help you have given us."

Dex nodded his head. "No problem. Thank you. For the tracker."

Teyla studied him thoughtfully for a moment. Then she glanced up at the inactive camera in the corner, her expression unreadable. At last she held out her hand. "Rodney," she said quietly. "Give me his weapon."

"What?" Rodney frowned at her. Teyla returned the frown with unruffled composure, and Rodney sighed. "Right." He reached under his jacket, where he had awkwardly tucked the big blaster into the lower strap of his shoulder holster, and pulled out the piece.

Teyla took it and extended it toward Dex. He eyed her questioningly, but accepted his bizarre firearm back, twirling it once as if checking its weight.

"I ask," Teyla said, "that you give us a couple hours, so as to refute the most obvious suspicions."

Dex met her eyes and nodded, silently. He climbed back into the bed, pulled up the covers. "I'll rest now. Doc's orders."

Teyla's smile was brief but sharp. "It is appreciated. Good luck, Ronon Dex."

"You, too," Dex said.

Shaking his head, Rodney glanced Dex over. The blaster was hidden under the bed sheet, and the agents standing guard outside would have no reason to search him, since Rodney and Teyla would be his only visitors. His escape was going to look suspicious no matter what; they'd probably face an inquiry.

Still, Rodney suspected he'd have fewer regrets at the end of it than he would thinking of Dex, with all his strength and stoicism and principles, locked away in the tunnels under Cheyenne Mountain.

Assured that the blaster was out of sight, Rodney plugged the camera back in, waved farewell to Ronon Dex, and walked out of the hospital room, Teyla behind him.

 

* * *

 

Landry was not pleased to hear they'd wasted S.G.C.'s medical resources on an investigational dead end. Not that he'd say so to Teyla's face; he knew her history with the Wraith better than Rodney did himself. But his frown got steadily deeper the more they explained about Dex's dearth of useful information. Unless that was because of the mentions of Michael, a name which he didn't care for any more than they did.

He didn't press them about that, though. Nor did he seem particularly cheered by the one bit of data they did have to add. "Whether Dex's target was Sheppard himself, or what he was carrying, is irrelevant."

"Only it might not be," Rodney replied. "If we had some idea what ATA is, maybe we could put together a hypothesis about what Michael was actually after—"

"It doesn't matter," Landry told them. "All that matters is making sure that Michael does not get it. ATA falling into his hands would be as catastrophic as if the G.O.A.U.L.D. got hold of it. As soon as you locate Sheppard, you will eliminate that threat. Is that understood?"

"It's understood," Rodney said. He was proud of how steady his voice was. It wasn't a lie, after all; they certainly comprehended their orders. Regardless of whether they chose to follow them.

And if his eyes shifted when he said it, that hopefully wouldn't show up clearly on Landry's video feed. The satellite connection did occasionally break up the image.

"General Landry," Teyla said, "I may know of a way to find Sheppard."

"You do?" Rodney whispered.

"Go on, Ms. Emmagan."

"You still have the CEO of Kaiba Corporation in custody, do you not?" Teyla said. "Before he was arrested, Sheppard was in contact with him. If Sheppard remains in the Las Vegas area, he may still be trying to arrange a meeting. If Kaiba is released to make such a meeting, and we place a tracking device on Kaiba's person—"

"Then we just follow Kaiba to Sheppard," Rodney said.

Landry looked doubtful. "But any G.O.A.U.L.D. man would expect a ploy like that."

"Only if Kaiba is indeed G.O.A.U.L.D., and expects that the S.G.C. was behind his arrest," Teyla said. "But if he is not, then he would have no such suspicions. And Kaiba came to Vegas to trade with Sheppard, at Sheppard's bequest, as far as we are aware."

"That doesn't mean he's not G.O.A.U.L.D.—" Landry began.

But Rodney followed his partner's logic. "No, it makes sense—Michael was after Sheppard himself, for whatever reasons, and presumably, G.O.A.U.L.D. would be after him, too. But Kaiba's here for whatever Sheppard has for sale in that briefcase. Otherwise Kaiba would've just grabbed the guy the first time they met. So whatever Kaiba's after, it's not what the G.O.A.U.L.D. want, which means he's probably not G.O.A.U.L.D.."

Landry peered between them. "So you agree with your partner's plan, Dr. McKay?"

"I think it's our best bet," Rodney said.

The general nodded. "All right, then. You're authorized to plant any monitors you deem necessary on Seto Kaiba's person and property. If you get anything, as soon as you get any lead on Sheppard, report in. We can't risk losing him."

"All right." Rodney hesitated, but it was now or never. "General, what is the danger of Project ATA? Why is Sheppard so key to it?"

"You know that's classified, Dr. McKay."

"I know it's the I.O.A.'s project," Rodney said. He'd followed the paper trails, phantom traces though they might have been. The funding for one of Sheppard Power's subsidiaries hadn't come from corporate headquarters at all, but an intricate network of shell companies based in a couple dozen different countries—all member states of the I.O.A..

This wasn't simply a mission to stop a renegade corporation; this involved the I.O.A.'s own client. No wonder they were so touchy.

"You don't have the clearance to know that, Doctor," Landry said darkly.

"Then get us the clearance—we ought to qualify as needing to know, considering our orders."

"Your orders are unrelated to the project."

"General, you've basically ordered us to murder a man because of this project; I'd call that pretty goddamned related!"

Landry's face was as hard as granite. "Doctor, Project ATA represents a significant threat to the safety of this entire planet. That's what you need to know. If that's not enough for you, then you can resign now. Or else you can disobey a direct I.O.A. directive, in which case you know the penalty."

"That will not be necessary, sir." Out of sight of the video camera, Teyla's hand was on Rodney's leg, her fingers digging in, for all her expression as she faced Landry was calm. "I will remind Dr. McKay of our duty."

"See that you do."

Teyla's fingers dug in harder. Rodney felt his eyes dart away, forced himself to meet Landry's gaze as steadily as he could manage. "Sorry, General. Um, sir. You know how much I hate not knowing. Things."

Landry's expression didn't soften, but he leaned back in his chair. "Yes, Dr. McKay, I do. And after this is over, I'll see what I can do. But for now, completing this mission is more important that assuaging your curiosity. Good luck, Doctor, Ms. Emmagan." He signed off.

"Rodney," Teyla said, as the screen went dark.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry." Rodney put his elbows on the edge of his desk, sank his head into his hands. "This is just so..."

"I know," Teyla said quietly.

"We're the good guys, right? The I.O.A.—they're not going to kill an innocent man because they feel like it. They've got reasons. Important reasons. Just because they won't tell us what they are..."

"I do not believe General Landry himself knows what Project ATA is," Teyla remarked.

"Yeah, I'm getting that impression. It's not like the I.O.A. ever liked him much. But still, they're not Michael, right? And they're not G.O.A.U.L.D., and they're not Wraith...they're not trying to rule the world, they're trying to save it. We're saving it, that's what we do. We're the good guys, we're heroes, here. And if we have to get our hands dirty, well, that's the job, isn't it? Can't make an omelet, et cetera."

Sheppard had ridiculous hair, for an egg. He snorted to himself, imagining the man shaved bald. A fate worse than death for him, probably.

Worse than what the S.G.C. intended for him. Rodney ground the heels of his palms into his aching eye sockets. "God, I don't have the constitution for this."

"What do you think, Rodney?" Teyla asked.

"I think..." Rodney dropped his hands and let go a long breath, shoulders slumping. He didn't feel brave or bold; he felt a little sick to his stomach. Like if there were anything else he could say, he would; but he couldn't. "I think that Sheppard looks like an okay guy."

 

* * *

 

KaibaCorp's CEO was clever for a businessman. Or else paranoid. The first thing Seto Kaiba did upon walking out of the police station was visit a convenience store, where he bought a disposable cell phone, rather than using the one returned to him, with the undetectable bug Rodney had planted in it.

Without the bug, it took Rodney a few minutes to illegally hack into the local cell tower and tease out Kaiba's new phone from all the other open lines. Teyla, watching out the window of their rental Prius, trained the unidirectional microphone on Kaiba, where he stood by the taxi stand across the street. The traffic noise interfered with the mic's pick-up, but with Teyla's lip-reading ability, she should be able to follow most of the conversation. Now, though, she shook her head. "He's speaking in Japanese."

"It's okay, I've got a fix on the phone, now." They wouldn't be able to eavesdrop, but he would be able to trace Kaiba's calls. "It's to Japan." Probably not Sheppard, then.

The CEO finished his call home, checked his old cell phone and dialed again. The trace was faster, this time. "It's on the same cellular network," Rodney reported.

"He's saying something about a meeting," Teyla said. "A local place—an internet cafe, on Delphinium Avenue. In two hours."

"Midnight's late for a business meet," Rodney remarked, looking up the cafe online.

"Not for a discreet one." Kaiba ended the call, and Teyla lowered the microphone. "Is it worth reporting to the general?"

"He wanted anything." Rodney took out his own cell phone and dialed the direct line to the S.G.C., reported, "We've got a possible meet. Emailing the address now."

"Good," Landry said. "I'm dispatching a containment team. Keep watching Kaiba for now, but rendezvous with them on location at eleven thirty."

Rodney hung up and looked at his partner. "Half past eleven."

"All right," Teyla said. "Do you have Sheppard's location?"

"Coming in now," Rodney said, turning his laptop toward her. The cellular GPS signal resolved at a motel on the outskirts of the city. "Okay, he's off of Route 215."

Teyla studied the electronic map over his shoulder, then pulled the car out into the street. "It should take us less than twenty minutes, in this traffic."

Rodney looked back through the rear windshield. Kaiba was getting into a taxi, heading to his hotel, presumably.

They turned a corner and he was out of sight. Rodney took out his electromag scrambler. "Give me your arm," he said. Teyla obediently held out her right arm. Rodney ran the instrument over it, then his own bicep. "That will null our sub-cu transmitters for now, and I've disabled the car's GPS." He typed rapidly on his laptop, verifying his arrangement. "And that," he said, hitting the final keys, "will show both us and the car parked outside the Venetian, Kaiba-watching, as ordered."

Teyla nodded, steering them down the strip. On either side of the street, Vegas's fluorescents flashed and twinkled in a psychedelic riot of greed and glamour, highlighting her hair in a shifting rainbow, like oil on water. Her hands on the steering wheel were steady, and she didn't blink under the glittering visual assault, her eyes on the road.

Rodney wiped his brow, fiddled with the air conditioning buttons. It was late enough that the desert's daytime heat had evaporated, but even with his jacket off he felt feverish, his palms damp with sweat. "Do you think Dex would've escaped by now?" he asked.

"General Landry did not mention him?"

"No."

"Then maybe he has not."

Or maybe Landry didn't want to tell them if he had. If they were under suspicion...Rodney didn't bother saying anything aloud, not when Teyla already knew. He tucked his elbow against the window, the glass cool through his thin shirt sleeve, leaned his head against his shoulder and watched the frenzied Vegas night flow past.

 

* * *

 

The motel was one step up from the place they had taken Dex—it had a pool and color TV, according to the antique sign desolately glimmering over the parking lot. They didn't bother entering the front office, and no one came out to ask them what they were doing. Rodney followed the GPS signal to the fifth door down. He took a deep breath, touched the butt of his Beretta in its holster under his jacket.

"Ready?" he asked into his radio earpiece; "Ready," Teyla murmured back.

Then he knocked on the scratched yellow door, a couple sharp raps, and stood back, square in the eye of the peephole in the middle of the door.

The night was quiet, other than the whoosh of highway traffic and the death-rattles of laboring AC units. He couldn't hear anything through the door, no footsteps, no hurried sounds of packing. Nothing—and then, the jangle of a chain, the slide of a lock, and the door opened.

John Sheppard leaned lankily in the doorway, hip cocked and one arm propping him up against the inner doorframe, looking idly comfortable in worn jeans and a black t-shirt. His eyebrows were drawn up and furrowed, and his hair was in the midst of civil war. "Yeah?" he said.

"Hi," Rodney said. "You, um, remember me?"

Sheppard blinked at him, slow like a sunning lizard. "Yeah," he said, drawing it out.

"Right." Rodney swallowed. "Remember what we said about not being assassins? Well, funny thing...as it turns out, right after that we were ordered to kill you. And we'd like to know why."

Sheppard blinked again. Rodney wondered if he had been drinking. He thought he smelled beer, over the dusty dry must of the desert.

"All right," Sheppard said finally, and stepped back inside to give Rodney room to enter. As he did, Rodney caught the gleam of the entryway light on a black barrel—Sheppard had his pistol in his other hand, behind his back.

Gulping again, he stepped inside the motel room.

"Where's your partner?" Sheppard asked.

"Outside, out there." Rodney waved at the opposite end of the cramped room. "Waiting for you, in case you tried to make a run for it through the bathroom window. If you're not going to try that, I can call her inside."

The corners of Sheppard's mouth twitched. "Okay, I won't try that."

"Very well." Rodney opened the radio link long enough to tell Teyla to come on in, then looked back at Sheppard.

Sheppard had taken the gun out from behind his back. He didn't quite have it aimed at Rodney, but it wasn't lowered, either. His brow was still knitted. "So," he said, "is this how you usually assassinate people? Show up at their motels and ask to come inside?"

"I don't assassinate anyone," Rodney said. "Look at me, seriously, do I look like a professional hitman to you? I'm an electronic surveillance expert, for god's sake. And Teyla—my partner's expertise is infiltration and sabotage. We're spies, not killers. That's why we're here. The S.G.C.'s mandate is pretty broad, but not _this_ broad, not usually. For some reason they're scared shitless of you, and we want to know why."

"I scare them?" Sheppard said. He might have been amused.

"You do—or that does," Rodney said, and he pointed to the corner, where the shiny X-T attaché case was sitting next to the bed. An open can of beer—cheap American swill—was set on top of it. "Whatever you've got in there. Project ATA."

"You know about ATA?" Sheppard asked.

"No," Rodney said. "We don't. Which is the whole point. I don't know how you feel about secret multinational government agents, Sheppard, but whatever you may think, we're not soulless drones, emotionlessly carrying out the clandestine agendas of a shadowy cabal of would-be world dictators. At least," he amended, "we didn't think we were."

Sheppard, unexpectedly, smiled, an easy, ironic grin. "Not what you signed on for?"

Rodney shook his head. "Hardly."

"I hear that."

They both turned their heads at the soft, sharp knock on the door, a distinctive four-beat pattern. "That's my partner," Rodney said, and then, catching a suspicious look in Sheppard's eyes, added, "and she's a spy, but that doesn't mean she's not trained to kill, so you better stop thinking what you're thinking right now."

Sheppard's eyebrows lifted up like they were trying to migrate north for the summer. "What am I thinking?"

"Oh, don't give me that. I know what you are, with the face and the hair and the jeans. I can recognize Captain Kirk, Jr., when I meet him. But Teyla's not an alien princess, so stop it there," Rodney commanded, and opened the door for his partner.

Teyla had her sidearm out, but at Rodney's nod she returned it to her holster and slipped inside, closing the door behind her. "Good evening," she said courteously, nodding to Sheppard.

Sheppard nodded back. "Evening. Welcome to the place, Ms, um—"

"Emmagan. Teyla Emmagan," Teyla said, extending her hand to Sheppard and shaking firmly. "And this is—"

"McKay. Rodney McKay," Rodney said, because he didn't get many better opportunities to say it like that.

Sheppard's brows shot up again, and the line of his lips folded and wriggled. "So, which double-0s are you guys?" he asked dryly. "Five? Six?"

"We're not with British intelligence," Teyla said smoothly. "The S.G.C. is under international jurisdiction."

"No license to kill?"

"Not usually," Rodney said.

"But I'm the exception." Sheppard's drawl didn't fluctuate, lazy as a cat in a sunny window. He was still holding his gun, however. "And you think it's because of ATA."

"Whatever ATA is," Teyla said, "those who command us believe the danger it poses is great enough that it is worth the life of a man to contain it. Your life, Mr. Sheppard."

Sheppard was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Yeah. I thought it might be something like that."

Tucking his gun in the waistband of his jeans--an excellent way to shoot yourself in some vital area, Rodney thought, but managed to bite his tongue on the admonishment when Teyla elbowed him--Sheppard went to the X-T case. Putting the beer can aside on the battered desk, he set the case on the bed, entered a combination into the lock, then flipped it open. He moved aside a sheath of papers to unclip a small device, sized to be held in one hand. This he handed to Rodney.

Rodney took it, frowned at it uncertainly. It was white, irregularly shaped, with a screen as broad as his palm, about two-thirds the size of the device entire. There were no obvious buttons, and when he poked at the blank screen, nothing happened. "What is it, a remote control?"

"Not really," Sheppard said. He reclaimed the device. This time, though Rodney didn't see him hit any controls, the device glowed to life, the screen lighting up. Sheppard touched the screen and gave it back to him. "There, it's activated for you."

The screen showed a simple, abstract grid. Rodney studied it in confusion. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Think about where we are in the solar system," Sheppard said.

"Think about what—" Rodney started to ask, and then stopped, his mouth still open, as the screen extended—no, expanded, the grid rising up to float above the device in a ghostly, three-dimensional image. White circles delineated spheres—the planets, Rodney realized, and there was Earth, where they were, just as he had pictured in his head.

He snuck a glance at Teyla, and saw she was staring, motionless with astonishment, the outlines of the spheres reflecting in her dark eyes. So, not a hallucination. Rodney passed one hand through the image, which wavered around his skin. He felt nothing, no heat, no prickle of static; the diagram was as insubstantial as air. "Holography?"

"Yeah." Sheppard was smirking, the lights from the device's display playing over his face.

"But how do you—" No sooner had Rodney said it then the image changed, the graph expanding again—no, not growing, its size remained constant, not much larger than his head. But the image zoomed in on a single planet—a sketchy map of brighter and darker zones appeared, superimposed on the sphere, marking oceans and continents, and there was North America, the West Coast, outlined in a nighttime satellite view of electric lights. The dense little cluster of lights in the desert's barren darkness would be Vegas, where they were, and now they were close enough to make out city streets—

_Stop_, Rodney thought, and the image froze like he had pressed pause.

Rodney felt his eyebrows shoot up. "Neural interface?" he demanded.

"Yup," Sheppard confirmed. "A basic one, but it works."

_New York City,_ Rodney thought at the device, and the image moved, the surface of the world rotating over to show the brilliant blot of the city butted against the dark ocean. _The S.G.C._, and in a second he was looking at Colorado.

"Okay," Rodney said, "this is seriously cool."

"I know, huh?" Sheppard grinned back at him, not a smirk, but a silly, boyish look, far too genuine for his sardonic face.

"This is ATA?" Teyla wasn't smiling.

"Yeah, wait," Rodney said, losing his own smile. "All this panic is over a mental Google Earth? This is awesome, but it's hardly more than a video game."

Sheppard shook his head. "The detector isn't much more than that, no. Which is why I'm selling it to KaibaCorp—I needed the cash, and the technology would be a great addition to their holographic console system. The next generation in video games. I can't wait to play them, myself."

"Yeah, that would be—" Rodney cut himself off, shaking his head. "But even if KaibaCorp's not on the level, I don't get what the I.O.A.'s worried about. If this is all ATA is, then G.O.A.U.L.D. has the technology to match it already."

"I don't know about G.O.A.U.L.D.," Sheppard said. "But the detector's not ATA. This is ATA," and he reached over and took the device from Rodney.

As before, the moment he touched it, the device glowed brighter. At the same time, the holographic image sharpened, from simple outlines to photographic realism, expanding to triple the size. Then, abruptly, it winked out, the device going dark. Sheppard gave it back to Rodney. This time it stayed unlit, no matter how hard he thought at it or poked at the screen.

"Ancient Technology Activation," Sheppard explained. "I have a particular genetic marker—a key, basically, that lets me turn this stuff on and off, and control it."

"Ancient, of course!" Rodney snapped his fingers. "Ancient Enterprises—I knew that's what one of the A's was."

"So without this gene," Teyla said, "a person cannot use this device?"

"You can use it, but you need me to activate it. And other things you can't use, without the gene."

"Let me guess," Rodney said. "Some of these other things, they're a lot more _interesting_ than this little toy. And when I say 'interesting,' I mean in the old Chinese curse way."

"You could say that, yeah," Sheppard said.

"This genetic marker—how many people have it?"

"Some," Sheppard said. He looked uncomfortable. "A few others, not related to me, either, surprisingly enough. Random distribution in the population, as far as anyone can tell."

"And?" Teyla asked. "There is more you have not said."

"I have the strongest expression of the ATA gene," Sheppard said. "That we've found. A few of the...things...I'm about the only one they work with."

"So let me get this straight," Rodney said. "You're the sole living, breathing key for some—what are we talking about? Guns? Bombs? WMDs?"

"Something like that." Sheppard sounded even more profoundly uncomfortable than he looked. "Or more."

Rodney exhaled and looked to his partner. "Well, that explains what Michael wanted with him."

"But not why the S.G.C. would want him dead," Teyla replied.

"I've got a guess there," Sheppard volunteered. "I'm retiring."

"Retiring?"

"Or resigning, whatever you want to call it. I'm abandoning Project ATA. And Sheppard Power along with it, but I haven't really been working with that for a while; that's all Dave's department. But the Ancient technology—I've had enough of it. Not when I don't know what it's being used for, when I don't get a say in how it's getting used. I had enough of that in the Air Force, and I usually trusted the USAF to be trying to do the right thing. These people behind Ancient Enterprises—they wouldn't even give me their names."

"The Institute of Observation and Action," Rodney began. "They're also the ones backing the S.G.C...."

"So they're the ones who sent you to kill me," Sheppard said flatly.

"Um. Yeah, I see your point."

"It makes sense," Teyla said.

"It makes sense," Rodney said, "but it's not exactly—they must have thought he was going over to G.O.A.U.L.D. Because of the KaibaCorp connection, even though they were wrong about it. If we tell them he's..." There ought to be some way to convince them that Sheppard was on the level, that he wouldn't be bought or tempted over to the wrong side; there must be some way to prove it to them.

Unless they already knew, but one man's life wasn't worth the risk...

Sheppard looked between them. "This I.O.A. you work for—do you trust them?"

"They're a government organization," Rodney said automatically, "what do I look like, a complete moron?"

"No," Teyla said, which was not automatic; Rodney stared at her. His partner gazed back, certain as ever, even now.

Especially now, Rodney thought. Which was good, because one of them should be. "No," he echoed his partner, swallowing to keep his throat from cracking with the dryness of the conditioned air. "And we're not working for them, either, anymore. That's why we're here."

"An ambush is being arranged, at your meeting with Mr. Kaiba tonight," Teyla told Sheppard. "We would advise that you skip that rendezvous."

Sheppard gave her a long, measuring look. Then he smiled. It was a relaxed look, not his technophile's grin; not exactly friendly, but sincere, surprisingly suited to his mouth and complemented by the lines bracketing the corners of his eyes. "Sounds like good advice."

_Nice to know you're not a complete moron, either_, Rodney was going to say, but before he could, the door was kicked down, the smash of shattering glass sounded in the bathroom, and half a dozen agents in black S.G.C. bodysuits swarmed the motel room.

 

* * *

 

The agents were in riot gear, visored helmets covering half their faces, but Rodney thought he recognized a few of the chins, and the voices shouting at them to stay still and put their hands up sounded familiar. He couldn't come up with names for any of them, even racking his memory, but he was pretty sure he'd met them before. The S.G.C. wasn't that big.

And the agents definitely knew them, considering that no less than four of them encircled Teyla, keeping a wary distance while aiming their automatics at her head and torso. That left two to contain Sheppard, backing him against the wall. One of that pair waved his MP5 at Rodney in a desultory way, verified that his hands were above his head, and returned his attention to Sheppard.

Seeing Rodney standing back, out of range, like he wasn't a threat, Sheppard narrowed his eyes, glaring a question.

Rodney shook his head hard in denial. A denial that there was no reason for Sheppard to believe—but Sheppard shrugged and stopped glaring, mouth slanting in what might have been a wryly sympathetic smirk, if the situation had been a bit less desperate. Really, it was hardly the time for smirking.

Taking a step back, into the corner between the bed and wall, Rodney turned until his right arm was out of sight, and slowly and stealthily lowered it, reaching under his blazer for his Beretta—

"McKay!" snapped one of the men surrounding Teyla, and he swung up his shotgun, pinning Rodney in its sights like a butterfly on a board.

"Not moving!" Rodney squeaked, hastily putting up his hand again. "Really, really, not, I swear!"

They made Teyla kneel on the ground, relieved her of her two sidearms and her bantos rods. They took Sheppard's and Rodney's guns as well, and then backed off. "Clear," the strike force leader spoke into his radio, pushing up his visor. Him, Rodney knew—a gruff robot of a man, a stereotypical professional soldier, weathered, chiseled features and rock-hard body and mind alike. His name was Winter, or Summer, something like that.

The S.G.C.'s reliance on military personnel had always irked Rodney. "You do realize we're on the same side," he said snappishly, glaring at his fellow agents, who had yet to lower their guns. "This is some sort of misunderstanding, Captain—"

"Colonel," Winter corrected, irritably. "And no misunderstanding, McKay. Our orders were to contain everyone we found here."

"If you would contact General Landry, Colonel," Teyla began.

"General Landry issued the orders, Emmagan," the colonel said. "He wanted you found. You two, and Sheppard."

"And you weren't that difficult to locate," said the tallest of the other agents, taking off his helmet. "Merely a matter of following your GPS trace, through the echo response packets." He sneered at Rodney.

"Kavanagh?" Rodney stared at the man in abject horror. "Kavanagh, _you_ tracked _my_ computer?"

"I tweaked Dr. Carter's tracing program," Kavanagh said smugly.

Rodney relaxed. "Oh, of course, Sam's program," he said, mollified. "That explains it. Damn it, I should've thought of that."

"Yes, you should have," Kavanagh said, sounding cranky.

"Get that," Colonel Winter said, gesturing to the X-T case on the bed—it was locked up again, Rodney realized. Sheppard or Teyla must have closed it when the strike team entered. One of the other agents picked up the case as the colonel said, "We're taking you all in. The general wants to question you two about the escape of a prisoner earlier this evening."

"Would that be Ronon Dex?" Teyla asked, no hint as to her feelings on the matter in her level tone.

The colonel didn't answer, his grim jaw firm enough to crack nuts, as he marched them out of the motel room. Rodney, for his part, had to swallow an irrational surge of accomplishment. Maybe they'd screwed up this, but they'd gotten Dex out of it, at least.

And they hadn't shot Sheppard yet, either. With the containment team here, Landry probably had decided it was better to take him in. They could probably get some use out of him, and his magic gene, willingly or not. And who cared if G.O.A.U.L.D. might use the same tactics? It wasn't like Sheppard knew anyone in the S.G.C. to argue for his rights...

Rodney glanced over at Sheppard. He was lagging behind, limping slightly—had he gotten injured during the strike?

No, Rodney realized, he had fallen back in order to get in step with the agent carrying the silver attaché case. The case with the ATA-activated equipment—Rodney suddenly found himself wondering what other toys Sheppard had in there, besides the one he had shared.

When Rodney looked to his other side, he met Teyla's eyes, her dark gaze cool and steady under the harsh lights of the cheap motel's walk. She didn't glance to Sheppard; she didn't have to. Her nod was slight, but enough.

Rodney drew a deep breath. "So where are you taking us?" he asked, loud enough that his voice echoed across the motel's parking lot. "To Colorado? Or perhaps down to Area 51, that'd be closer, and there are state-of-the-art interrogation facilities there, some of our best technology—"

"Dr. McKay!" Colonel Winter growled in warning.

"I'm just curious," Rodney said, not lowering his voice. "I don't have that much experience with interrogation, on either side of the table, but I've read the reports on the latest pentothal iteration, and putting aside the rarer side-effects—and possible allergic reactions, of course, which I always have to be careful about—it doesn't sound like a half-bad way to spend an evening—"

The colonel stopped walking and swung around on his heel. "McKay, if you don't shut up—"

Rodney was at the wrong angle to see Sheppard, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Teyla shift her weight—almost unnoticeably, but she rocked onto the balls of her feet, ready for action, and that was all the warning he needed.

Rodney dropped to the ground, just as every light in the motel winked out, like one hell of a fuse had been blown, plunging them into briefly blinding darkness.

Before his eyes adjusted to the night, he heard gunfire, deafeningly close. Kavanagh panicking, he'd bet his laptop—but there were no cries over it; no one had been hit. To his right, where Teyla had been walking, he heard the whump of fist meeting flesh, and a gasp and a thud—someone hitting the ground, too heavy to be his partner.

Reaching out, Rodney's grasping hand found the low railing along the walk. He was clambering over it when a shadowy figure grabbed his wrist and twisted back, forcing him to an awkward, painful crouch. "McKay," Colonel Winter snarled, and Rodney felt a cold, hard circle press against his temple. "Emmagan!" the colonel shouted. "I've got a gun to your partner's big brains—stop Sheppard, now, if you don't want them splattered!"

"_Splattered_?" Rodney sputtered, too shocked to remember to be scared of the gun to his head. "You could've gone for something slightly less stomach-turning—"

The lights blinked on again, as suddenly as they had gone out. Rodney squinted against them. He saw Teyla standing a few feet away, with two of the agents groaning at her feet. A few feet behind her stood Sheppard—he had reclaimed his briefcase, and apparently had used it to club a third agent. But now he was standing as stock-still as Teyla, though no one had a gun on him, that Rodney could see. The fourth man had his shotgun aimed at Teyla, and Kavanagh was just standing there, blinking like an emu that had taken a blow to the head.

And yet Sheppard wasn't going anywhere, just standing there holding his X-T case and glaring at the colonel.

"All right," the colonel said. "Lieutenant, take that briefcase back—"

Out of nowhere, a corona of red light surrounded the lieutenant—a flash that winked out the next second, and the man collapsed in a limp heap.

"What—" The colonel snapped around, staring out across the parking lot. He took his gun from Rodney's head to fire a warning shot into the darkness. Before he could get off a second shot, or Teyla could make a move, the red light flashed again, and the colonel dropped to the walkway, heavily as a sack of wet cement.

Teyla met Rodney's eyes, her brows raised in a silent question, then swung around toward Kavanagh.

Kavanagh looked at her, looked at the other five agents sprawled on the walkway. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he folded over like a piece of overcooked spaghetti, joining his fellow agents on the ground.

Sheppard gaped at him, then shut his open mouth and nudged the lieutenant with his shoe. "He's still breathing," he remarked.

"His blaster must have been set to stun," Rodney said. His heart was pounding fit to match a hummingbird's, so fast he felt giddy; he had to fight the insane urge to laugh out loud. Adrenaline.

Brakes squealed on the parking lot's pavement as a black Jeep pulled up beside the walkway. Ronon Dex stuck his head out of the driver's side window. "You guys going to get in, or what?" he asked.

 

* * *

 

Rodney had always thought Teyla's driving skills left something to be desired in terms of safety, if not expediency. He had changed his mind in the last ten miles. His partner was a perfectly adequate wheelwoman. Ronon Dex, on the other hand, drove like a freaking maniac.

Sitting in the Jeep's backseat next to Sheppard, Rodney wrapped his arms protectively over his laptop. He hadn't taken the time to retrieve it from their rental before their getaway just to have it smashed to bits during their inevitable high-speed collision. He didn't dare turn it on until he had a chance to manually disable the wireless and make sure there were no S.G.C. bugs implanted in the hardware—Kavanagh might've been telling the truth of how they were traced; but then, he might've simply been trying to get one over on Rodney.

In the front seat, Teyla asked, "So you found us by following the S.G.C. agents from the hospital?"

Dex nodded.

"But why were you following them at all?" Rodney demanded. "Not that we're not grateful for the save, but why didn't you just get the hell out of there, once you got away?"

"Knew they'd be after me," Dex said. "One way to run is to hunt your hunters. Then you know where they are."

"Guess you would know something about running," Rodney allowed. Seven years he'd survived the Wraith—how many had he hunted, Rodney wondered?

"Besides," Dex went on, "figured you guys could use the help. You didn't seem too good at this."

"We didn't—what!" Rodney squawked. "We captured you, might I remind you, with your own blaster, not to mention we did find Sheppard, and—"

"Thank you, Ronon," Teyla said solemnly. "We are grateful."

"No problem," Dex said, turning his head toward her.

"The road," Rodney reminded hurriedly, "for the love of god, will you please watch the highway that is currently passing under us at close to ninety miles an hour, and may I remind you again that the last thing we need now is to be pulled over for speeding—"

"This is the desert, McKay." He thought he saw the gleam of Dex's teeth in the shadows. "No patrol cars this time of night."

True, the road was empty. There were no streetlights, here, just the gray ribbon of the highway winding through the desert's formless darkness, and the velvet black sky curving down to meet it, scintillating with stars. That stellar display was almost as bright as Vegas behind them, but quieter, and far more profound.

"So now what?" Rodney asked. "Where are we going, what do we do now?"

"Well, now that you mention it," Sheppard's lazy drawl carried over the Jeep's rumbling engine. "I don't have much cash on me now, but I've still got this," and he tapped his fingers on the metal X-T case balanced on his knees.

"Yes," Rodney was reminded. "And what do you have in there, anyway—the lights going out like that at the hotel, you did that? With a mental command?"

"Yeah, that was me," Sheppard said. "I planted a little EMP generator in the fusebox when I got the motel room. In case I needed it."

"The fire alarm at the hotel, when you escaped from us," Teyla said. "That was you as well?"

It was too dark for Rodney to see Sheppard's face clearly, but he would bet two blue chips that he was smirking. "Guilty as charged."

Dollars to donuts one of his devices had erased him from the Atlantis's security cameras, too. "So," Rodney said, "we can, what, go into the bank-robbing business with your magic toys?"

"Huh," Sheppard said. "Actually, that'd be pretty awesome. But I was thinking of selling the tech to KaibaCorp, like I came here to do. I know your S.G.C. guys will be watching Seto Kaiba, but I've got a contact number for his vice president—his little brother, I think—and we can set something up. And once I have the cash, I can get down to business."

"What business?" Rodney asked. "Sheppard Power?"

"Not exactly," Sheppard said. "My brother's cut me off, pretty much—hence me needing the capital from KaibaCorp. Dave wasn't too interested in funding a private investigation into government agencies. But I wanted to know just who was paying for Project ATA, and where they got this technology, and exactly what they want to do with it. And after tonight—yeah, I definitely want to know."

"Yes," Teyla said quietly. "As do I."

"Glad to hear you say that," Sheppard says. "Because once I have the money to hire people, I'm thinking that my investigation could use a couple experts in espionage. An infiltration and sabotage specialist, and a guy who can handle electronic surveillance. Would you happen to know anyone like that?"

"Maybe," Rodney said. Two of the S.G.C.'s own agents, investigating their own organization—oh, he and Teyla were going to be very popular. Infamous, even.

The adrenaline must still be in his system, because there should be a knot of dread in his stomach the size of Cheyenne Mountain, but he couldn't feel it over the heady rush of anticipation. He hadn't felt like this since his first time in the field on his own, backing Teyla up on one of their early missions. His shot had gone wide, but it had saved her life anyway. It had been the first time he'd realized that even without his science, he might yet accomplish something worthwhile.

"Hey, Sheppard," Dex said from the driver's seat up front. "You think you'll need a bodyguard?"

"I might," Sheppard said. "Or a driver. What was your name?"

"Ronon Dex."

"Ronon Dex," Sheppard said thoughtfully. "That red light, that stunned those soldiers—that was your gun, Ronon?"

"Blaster," Rodney corrected.

"Yeah," Dex said. "That's mine. Got a kill setting, too."

Considering Rodney had thus far had three conversations total with John Sheppard, it was amazing how easy it was to hear the grin in his voice. "Cool."

 

Epilogue

 

Rodney entered the motel room to find Teyla on her back on the floor, her mouth bloody, and Ronon towering over her, grinning like a demented barbarian with his huge hands folded into fists. "Don't move!" Rodney snapped, reaching for his gun under his jacket.

"Rodney, wait," Teyla said, rolling smoothly onto her feet like a cat and pressing her fingers to her cut lip to staunch the blood. "We were only sparring."

"Sparring," Rodney said, reluctantly letting go of his Beretta. "Right." He looked between them. "Isn't it a little odd that a week ago you were fighting for real, and now you're beating each other up for fun?" He pointed one index finger at Ronon's chest. "You, did you ever even apologize for trying to kill her? A couple of times?"

Both Teyla and Ronon blinked at him. "No," Ronon said finally.

"Why would he?" Teyla asked.

Rodney sighed. "Never mind. Where's Sheppard?"

"Here." Sheppard came out of the bathroom, in the usual jeans and t-shirt but barefoot, and toweling off his hair. "You got lunch?"

When he lowered the towel, Rodney saw the bruise under his left eye. It wasn't quite blackened, but almost. He groaned. "You, too?"

"Teyla knows some sweet moves," Sheppard said cheerfully.

"I'm surrounded by lunatics."

"Yeah, hungry ones," Ronon said, and swiped the McDonald's bags out of his hands. Sheppard made a grab for them, but Ronon held them up high, out of reach.

Rodney had gotten used to this routine in the past few days, and had already eaten a hamburger to stave off hypoglycemia. Ignoring the erstwhile five-year-olds, he sat on the closer bed. Teyla took a seat on the other side of the bed, leaned in toward him. "Rodney?" she asked. "Is anything wrong?"

"No," Rodney said. "Or—I don't know. I was accosted on the way back from McDonald's."

"You were what?" Sheppard demanded, going from five-year-old idiot to forty-year-old businessman _cum_ soldier in half a second. Rodney was getting used to that, too.

"Accosted," he said. "Or—something. There were these two old guys in suits who wanted to talk to me—I figured them for Mormons, this close to Utah, but it wasn't religion they were pushing."

"So what was it?" Ronon asked, dropping the fast food bags on the bedspread.

"They said," Rodney frowned, "that they knew about me. Us. That we were 'available.' And they wanted to know if we were looking for work. They said they were representatives of an international organization that might have use for our skills."

"G.O.A.U.L.D.?" Teyla asked carefully.

"I don't think so, they didn't seem the type. They gave me their names—one of them was Polish or Czech or something, I can't remember it. The other man was going by a pseudonym so completely ridiculous I couldn't forget it."

"What was it?"

Rodney thought for a moment. "...Shit. I forget. What was it? Something Skywalker—Charlemagne? Genghis Khan? It was some conqueror like that...anyway, they said they'd contact us again later, see what we thought."

"Interesting," Teyla said, taking out a box of McNuggets from one bag and rooting around for the BBQ sauce. "I received an email forwarded from Dr. Keller this morning. She had been contacted by a colleague she studied with in Australia, who asked Jennifer to send her message along to me. I did not entirely follow her request, but it made oblique reference to an organization called the Agency, which is recruiting now."

"Now that you mention it," Sheppard said, "yesterday I got a call from General O'Neill—I met him in the Air Force. Never was under his command, but I know he's trustworthy. He said he had a cousin who could hook us up with this group, the Phoenix Foundation."

"Know a guy," Ronon said around a mouthful of French fries. "Mike, in Florida. He says if we're going freelance to let him know. He's thinking maybe of starting a union."

"A _union_?"

Teyla bit a McNugget in half, thoughtfully. "I have also heard of an organization in Vancouver," she mentioned.

"Oh, yeah," Sheppard said, "and Kaiba's brother told me there's a group based in Japan—something about a flower shop? I told him we're not assassins, though."

"...Maybe we do need a union," Rodney said.

"Maybe." Sheppard shrugged. "Still. We've got a job now, but it's nice to have options." He took out one of the strawberry milkshakes, raised it to the ceiling fan. "To options."

"To options," Rodney echoed, lifting up the other milkshake.

Ronon grunted and toasted with the carton of fries.

Teyla took out the bottle of iced tea and raised it as well. "To options," she said, "and to choices, and making the right choice."

"Yeah," Sheppard said. "Here's to hoping we can figure it out which one that is," and he slurped his milkshake.

Teyla met Rodney's eyes across the bed, and smiled. "I think we already have."

**Author's Note:**

> For those curious, the complete cameo list:
> 
> The Man from U.N.C.L.E. - the story title, the act titles, the acronyms, some of the gadgets, and the general atmosphere were all MUNCLE-inspired, and I couldn't resist giving the chars an off-screen cameo at the end (even if Rodney does blank on Napoleon Solo's name.)
> 
> Seto Kaiba is from the manga/anime Yu-Gi-Oh (and one of my favorite characters of all time, which is why I couldn't resist giving him a role, since he fit the part.) There's a corporate name from Gargoyles; also the hotel's Zeira safes are a nod to the sadly cancelled Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, and Teyla's four-beat code knock is a riff on new Doctor Who.
> 
> And at the end, along with the MUNCLE cameo, there's oblique reference to the SciFi Channel's The Invisible Man, MacGyver, Burn Notice, Once a Thief, and the anime Weiss Kreuz.


End file.
